


Chalk and Cheese

by TerenceFletcher



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe, American!Dean, Cultural Differences, DCBB, Dean/Cas Big Bang Challenge 2018, M/M, Romance, Supportive Sam Winchester, british!cas
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-13
Updated: 2018-11-13
Packaged: 2019-08-21 14:31:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 27,479
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16578320
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TerenceFletcher/pseuds/TerenceFletcher
Summary: When a long-awaited week off doesn’t go as planned with Sam having to leave alone, Dean is determined to just lock himself in the house. Booze, junk food, and TV — and he’ll be fine. He always was. It works right until the next morning, when a weird stranger appears on his doorstep and, all of a sudden, claims a room.





	1. Sunday

**Author's Note:**

> Greatest thanks to my amazing [undeadandinbed](http://undeadandinbed.tumblr.com/) for edits, comments, and support! For some writers, the fic's life is started when it's published; for me, it's when I share it with my beloved beta which I'm not sure I deserve. Thank you so much again for your help!
> 
> Many many thanks to my team partner, [ZeliRocks](http://zelirocks.tumblr.com/), for the cutest art ever. Please [follow the link](http://zelirocks.tumblr.com/post/180068366519/hey-i-am-very-much-alive-and-very-much-obsessed) to praise my brilliant artist! I'm very proud that I was teamed with her; it was a perfect match. (And the spiritual kinship we've developed over these weeks, was outstanding.) Thank you!
> 
> Written for Dean/Cas Big Bang Challenge 2018 (DCBB).

The pity in Sam’s eyes was disgusting.

“Come on, Dean, it’s just one week.”

“We wanted to whisk off to the West Coast.”

“We will,” Sam said hastily, “sure we will, just later. It’s not about you, it’s just because, you know, Jess had to take her week off now, and I promised her this trip long ago, and…”

Dean pursed his lips and narrowed his eyes, “So why worry about our plans, right? Yeah, screw them up… What the hell, Sam, we were waiting for a whole year for it!”

“We’ll do it another time. And Jess won’t. It’s no one’s fault that they made Jess use her leave right now…” Sam averted his gaze, as if feeling guilty. “Dean, don’t be mad… And you’ll have time to fix the car.”

“It’s fine.”

“And the brake pads?”

“I replaced them last week.”

“And the engine oil?”

“And the engine oil too. And if you’re going to list the rest of the parts you’ll miss your freaking plane.”

Sam nodded in surrender, or maybe he was unwilling to go on arguing. He reached out to the table and took a folded printout of his ticket. He took a moment staring at the font, which was so small that it looked like a medicine manual, then put the paper into his inner pocket.

“Won’t you see us off?”

“To the airport? You’re kidding? Just the sight of a plane makes me sick.”

“Of course I’m kidding.” Sam said, and his open-hearted smile made Dean’s irritation buzz again. “I know that you hate them. That’s why I called a taxi.”

“Good riddance.” Old bedsprings squeaked as Dean got up from the couch and headed to the liquor cabinet. On his way, he caught a sight of Sam’s duffel bag packed so tightly that the zipper hadn’t reached the end. He barely stopped himself from kicking it hard. “Your so-called girlfriend doesn’t travel light, does she?”

Sam frowned. “Jess is not a _so-called girlfriend_ , Dean. She is… she is not what you think. It’s the first time we’re going somewhere like this, and I just want to be prepared. I have no idea about what we’ll have there. They promised to provide everything we might need, but I grabbed my sleeping bag just in case… And maybe we’ll go visit somewhere else, once we are there.” Sam scowled at the whiskey bottle in Dean’s hand and added, “And you’d better not stay home all the time, you know.”

“Shut up.”

“Dean, seriously… Whatever you say, solitude is not your thing.”

“Thanks, Dr. Freud. But I’ll do just great without company.”

Sam cast him a disapproving glance, sighed, and took his bag. Settling it on his shoulder, he halted for a moment, his fingers clutching the straps, and looked back at Dean. His expression was weirdly tense, his eyed shining.

“So you’ll spend this whole week here, right?” he asked.

“Like goddamn Kevin McCallister. Why?”

“Nothing.” Suddenly, Sam was in a great hurry. He squeezed his bag with both hands and pulled the zipper, finally closing it. “Well, see you, Dean.”

He opened his arms for a hug, and though reluctantly, Dean stepped towards him. Their embrace came out forced and a bit awkward; it seemed that Sam wasn’t comfortable with the way he was leaving either.

“Call me when you’re there.”

Dean said it mechanically, out of habit — he had no desire to know anything about Sam’s journey. Dean knew himself too well: all these calls would only fuel the grudge smoldering inside him, and by the end of the week it would make a nice campfire. It would just hurt more. It was easier not to know.

The taxi signaled from the outside, mercifully cutting off a painful farewell. Dean held the door, letting Sam out, and then shut it right away. He didn’t watch his brother leaving.

Sam and Jessica, his _not a so-called girlfriend_ , were flying to Detroit. It turned out that it had been Jessica’s lifetime dream to see the Great Lakes, and Sam, that goddamn Romeo, could not say no. Even leaving aside the plane — which Dean considered nearly impossible — the idea seemed blatantly foolish: there was just about nothing worth seeing. In the past, Dean had driven the state of Michigan all the way through, from Ironwood to Port Huron and from Houghton to Temperance, and by the time he was done, he was seeing wolverines double. Compared to the Midwest, where Dean had lived his whole life and where he could drive for hours without meeting another car, and the motel parking lots always had plenty of space, highways in Michigan looked like the whole state had suddenly decided to go for a ride. The hotels were fully booked, burgers came overdone, crappy coffee was cold, and all the worthy chicks seemed to be working on the other shift. And the worthy guys too. If it wasn’t for the Woodward motor show, this journey would definitely rank first on the list of Dean Winchester’s most pointless adventures.

It wasn’t about Detroit, though. Moreover, it wasn’t about Jessica. The city didn’t matter, nor did any of Sam’s previous girlfriends. That weird Amy, the auction heir Sarah, or even that dog-obsessed Amelia, who made Dean want to call Greenpeace just by looking at her, — it could be any of them. It was Sam’s decision that hurt. Girls came and left Sam's life, but Dean always made sure he was there for his nerdy younger brother with the ever-shaggy bangs.

Dean hardly could say who he was madder with: Sam or himself — for failing to hide his disappointment that had hit him unexpectedly hard. It wasn’t the first time their plans changed and of course it wouldn’t be the last. That wasn’t a big deal at all, and indeed, each of them could cut out another week off later in the year. Dean knew that. Perhaps, he was just too used to his brother always being around. He missed the moment when Sam grew up enough to wish for something more than evenings at the bar and rides across the country. Jessica was Sam’s door to a separate life, and somehow Dean felt that this door had a one-way hinge.

He finished the day sprawling on an old couch, hugging a whiskey bottle. At least that didn’t give Dean advice on how to spend his next week.


	2. Monday

He woke up to someone banging on the door. The knocking went on and on, echoing in Dean’s head with a sickening rhythm. Whoever the person was, he was persistent beyond all reason.

Dean dragged himself to the door, eyes still half-shut, and pulled the handle. The chain clinked. Dean didn’t even remember putting it on last night. Probably he was sleeping already.

“Mr. Winchester, I suppose? Dean Winchester?”

Dean blinked and rubbed the bridge of his nose. As he finally looked up, he faced a guy he’d never met before. By his feet, he had a yellow suitcase.

“I’m not buying anything,” Dean snapped, ready to shut the door.

“But I’m not selling anything.”

The stranger seemed a couple years older than Dean and slightly narrower in his shoulders. Under his tan trench coat, there was a business suit and a loose blue tie. Although looking formal, his outfit was in careless disorder, as well as was his hair, sticking out at the temples. He looked like someone who’d gotten on other people’s clothes wrong in size, or maybe, like someone who sincerely couldn’t care less what anyone thought of him.

Trying not to stare too openly, Dean held his gaze at the stranger’s face. His pale cheeks were scrubby, and his eyes underlined with dark shadows. It wasn’t a hangover (Dean was an expert in that), but it wasn’t something other than booze either: the stranger’s blue eyes were bright and perfectly focused upon Dean. He remembered that kind of look very well — that had been the way Mr. Folsom, his middle school music teacher, eyed Dean’s t-shirt with the Metallica print. But Mr. Folsom never visited the Winchester’s house and never stood on the porch with the expression of a debt collector.

“Has Wall Street crashed?”

The stranger frowned, then cracked a tiny smile.

“I am sorry. My plane was delayed, and I missed the connecting flight. I took a night train…” He gestured vaguely, as though in an attempt to excuse himself without literally saying so. “I was afraid you wouldn’t be home.”

Dean blinked, then glanced at his watch. It was half past ten. Sober, he would have never slept that long. With Sam at home, he would have never drunk that much.

“So… How can I help?”

“Do you still have that room?”

Dean blinked again. “Which room?”

“For me.”

It was both ridiculous and embarrassing, the way it got with two people speaking different languages emotionally enough not to notice they could not understand each other.

With an effort, Dean met the stranger’s eye.

“I’m not sure I understand.”

The stranger pulled out a crumpled sheet of paper from the inner pocket of his coat.

“Isn’t this your advert?”

It suddenly began to dawn on Dean that this visit wasn’t a mistake. He was starting to guess what this all was about.

“My advert?” he asked in a low voice.

“On the bedfinder.com, that holiday website… Here…” He looked down at his paper and started reading aloud, “Dean Winchester, Lawrence, Kansas, USA. A week is available from the fifth to the twelfth of June. A separate bedroom in a classic city house. Or isn’t this you?”

_Sammy, I’ll kill you._

“Ugh…” Dean grunted slowly. “Well, actually…”

“There’s your picture here. Not a good one, though.”

The stranger handed him the printout, and Dean saw a blurred picture of himself. He recognized it immediately. Recently, the camera app in Sam’s phone was getting a little jumpy, and such lousy shots became its unique feature.

_Sam, what the hell…_

“Look,” Dean tried to put it as politely as he could, but his voice was still menacingly hoarse, “this _is_ the house and the face _is_ mine, okay, but I’m not offering anything. I never placed that ad. I never even logged on that website.”

“Oh.” Clearly bewildered, the stranger pinched his chin. “Then who made it appear?”

Dean hesitated a moment, then said reluctantly, “I guess it’s my idiot brother, Sam. That was kinda… one of his jokes.”

It took the stranger a few moments to comprehend that. He was silent, his eyebrows furrowed with what Dean would mildly put as confusion. He even didn’t look that upset, and that mere fact added to Dean’s own uneasiness.

“Your brother has a very peculiar sense of humor,” the guy said. “Does he always joke like that?”

“I’m sorry, man… I really am. It’s just, you know… I don’t…”

The stranger bent his head, as if thinking Dean’s unspoken words over. When he finally glanced up again, his expression was unreadable.

“My apologies.” He lifted his suitcase from the ground and turned to go. “Goodbye, Mr. Winchester.”

Later, remembering that moment, Dean wouldn’t be able to say what made him stop the man he didn’t even know. Sam deserved a good punch for a dumb trick he’d played, no doubt, but that could wait. Unlike the guy pacing down the driveway.

Dean watched him walking away for three more seconds before he called, “Hey, wait! Wait… And what about your plan B?”

The stranger stopped. For a while, he stood as he was, with his stiff back to Dean, as if he’d been hit with a spell. Then he turned around.

“What plan B?”

Dean sighed, “Your night’s sleep. Where’re you going?”

“I’ll find some hotel…” He shrugged uncertainly and looked away. “I will use the Internet.”

“Is there anything I can do?”

“Not unless you have a spare thousand to pay for my hotel.”

Dean shook his head. “Not even a hundred. But,” he added, grinning, “I have the room.”

“You said you were not offering anything.”

“I am now. I’m the only one living in this house right now, the room is there. Take it, or leave it.”

The stranger tilted his head sideways. With his disheveled dark hair and his eyebrow raised with curiosity, he looked like a magpie facing a silver spoon.

“I will take it. Thank you… Mr. Winchester.”

“Just Dean. And speaking of, what’s your name?”

“Castiel.”

“Wha..?!” It somehow came out by itself, and Dean felt terribly ashamed. “Sorry, man, I didn’t mean to…”

Castiel nodded slightly. When he spoke, his voice was calm as if Dean’s rudeness didn’t bother him at all.

“It’s all right. I'm accustomed to people reacting like that to my name. You are not the first one.”

“Well, Cas… I’ll make it short, okay?” Castiel nodded in agreement, and much relieved, Dean went on, “Come on in. Guess we’re gonna fit in here…” He still felt embarrassed — for Sam’s stupid joke and for himself being so rough on the innocent man — and he struggled to think what to say. At last, opening the door to let his new-found guest in, he blurted the first thing that had come to his mind, “Cool coat.”

#

They both didn’t have breakfast yet. Happy to take a break, Dean gave Castiel a remote and escaped to the kitchen.

Occupying himself with extensive cooking was probably the best thing he could do. With the remains of whiskey still itching at his tongue, he wasn’t particularly hungry, he just needed some time. Hooking on something familiar seemed like a good option.

He had no idea whatsoever about what to do next.

The whole situation was absurd. He barely knew what the ad said apart from his name and address and what he was supposed to do. Sam had told him something about it, but then Dean had been too upset with their ruined plans to listen. The only thing he recalled was that people around the world were giving free shelter to the travelers — just to help and make new friends. The service was safe enough as the potential hosts were required to fill their profile in such a detailed way that it would make the FBI jealous. The guests, presumably, did the same. Except Dean hadn’t read it and knew literally nothing about the guy sitting in his living room.

There was no way back. He’d invited Castiel to stay that week in his house, so he would survive it no matter what. After all, it could be worse — if the guest had turned out to be some elderly lady for example, or even a whole family with ever-screaming children. At least this guy was quiet and probably wouldn’t require too much time. Probably, Dean was lucky.  

The makeshift mantra helped a bit. He weighed his chances. Whatever business had brought Castiel to Lawrence, Dean didn’t have to interfere. He’d spare the room as promised, maybe show him around the city a bit, and that would be it. He didn’t have to babysit.

At least, he hoped so.

By the time Dean came to this helpful conclusion, they had a platter of pancakes, a sizzling pan with bacon and eggs, and a large pot of coffee. It wasn’t about hospitality, he’d just missed the moment when his hands made all that food. With the amount of it, he thought inadvertently, he could feed himself for a week. He placed everything onto a tray and headed back to the living room.

Castiel was sitting in the same place as Dean had left him, calm and unfazed. He had taken off his tan coat, but other that that, nothing about him had changed. His eyes were locked on the TV screen where Netflix was running some documentary.

“Here we go,” Dean announced, putting the tray on the coffee table. After he unloaded all the plates and cutlery, there was no space left for anything else. “Hope you’re hungry, ‘cause otherwise, we’ll have to throw a party.”

Castiel’s eyes widened. “Not _that_ hungry.”

“I’m not saying you have to eat all of it,” Dean laughed briefly and handed him the plate. “Just… feel free to choose whatever you’d like.”

“Is it customary for you to have breakfasts like this?” Castiel wondered.

“Sometimes.”

They started eating. After a few bites, Castiel drew a contented sigh and sipped at his coffee.

“Amazing. You must be exercising hammer and tongs to keep fit.” The way he said it instantly made Dean feel guilty for never even thinking about any exercise. “But I have to admit, I rather like American food. Of course, it’s not too healthy, but it tastes great.”

“Yeah…” It suddenly occurred to Dean what else felt odd about that guy. He had an accent. Some undefined and vague, but it was there. “Wait… where’re you from?”

“London.”

Dean searched his memory.

“London, Ohio?”

“London, United Kingdom.”

Dean whistled in awe. “That’s a damn long way.”

“It actually is.” Castiel took another pancake from the plate and went on chewing.

Dean stared at him, still stomaching the news. He could not even imagine what it was that a British guy could have forgotten in Lawrence, Kansas, USA.

“So…” he muttered to keep up the conversation, “And how do you like it here?”

Castiel took a moment, then said, “It’s huge. Everything is huge. In the time I was flying over the ocean, I could have crossed England at least four times. And four more while I was on the train.”

“That’s right,” Dean said, suddenly flattered with the mention of his home country’s impressive size. “That’s America, man. Not like your merry ol’ England, huh?”

“Scale-wise, no.” He swallowed the last piece of bacon and looked up at Dean. “It’s my first time here. It might seem strange, but almost everything in your country is quite a new experience for me.” He paused a moment and added, “I feel like an alien.”

His expression remained cool, it was his voice that made Dean believe in what he’d heard. Deep and low, it sounded like the waves rolling on the beach, their mild roar distant and warm. Whatever part of himself that Castiel felt was alien, all the while he was talking, Dean didn’t mind.

“And you came here straight from London?” he asked.

It turned out that Castiel didn’t. He was supposed to attend some work meeting in Chicago, but the dates had now changed for a later time. Having only last-minute notice, he did not manage to rebook his flights. As a result, he ended up with a free week in the US — and, obviously, a very limited budget to cover it.

“But why didn’t you stay in Chicago?”

“I wanted to see the country.”

Dean chose not to tell him that for a newbie, Lawrence was hardly the first place to visit. Although he loved his home city, it was clearly lagging behind places like the Grand Canyon and Yellowstone. Its nature was ordinary, the streets were ordinary, even the people were ordinary. Everything here was ordinary, and Dean himself wasn’t an exception.

“You have something special in mind?”

Castiel set down his knife and fork (their handles pointing at the plate’s two o’clock sharp) and carefully folded his napkin.

“I was hoping to get some guidance from you, Dean,” he said. Having noticed Dean’s puzzled face, he explained. “The website I used, the one you didn’t log on to, says that the hosts are supposed to help their guests. There are no certain requirements, of course, but it’s presumed that they spare some time to introduce their home place to foreigners. In getting acquainted, people exchange knowledge. Enjoy cultural entertainment, visit sights of interest…”

Just the listing itself made Dean’s headache, almost sleeping after a massive intake of cholesterol, wake up again. His hopes of getting off with just giving the guy a room were rapidly melting away.

“So what, you mean I gotta do all that stuff like, look left, look right, see that tree that Lincoln’s dog pissed on?”

Castiel frowned slightly. “Fido lived in Springfield, Illinois.”

“You got my point. Do I have to guide you around?”

“You don’t want to?”

Castiel looked Dean in the eye, his gaze suddenly demanding, expecting an answer as straight as the question was. Even his irises, vibrant blue before, darkened a bit.

Dean rose and rounded the table.

“You got the wrong man for that.”

“Why?”

“I’m not the kind that goes out a lot,” Dean said. “All I know is a couple bars, a gas station, and a grocery store. I’ll make the worst guide in the world.”

Castiel gave him a little smile. “I have a guidebook, Dean. You won’t have to remember every tree, even famous for someone’s dog leaving its mark on it.”

He was quite a provident guy, Dean thought. A guidebook about Lawrence, who'd have thought.

“I don’t want to force you,” Castiel went on, taking Dean’s silence for hesitation. “Take your time. I’ve been on the road for more than twenty-four hours, and the only guidance I need right now is the way to my room. We’ll talk later.”

Dean could not but do what he was asked for. He waited for Castiel to grab his coat and suitcase and led him upstairs.  

The room was unlocked, its door handle broken since Dean had been a kid. He paused a moment looking at it, pondering whether his guest would notice that, then pushed the door open.

It used to be their dad’s bedroom. Although it had been empty for the last eight years, it still kept a light scent of its former owner — some mixture of sandalwood, leather, and whiskey. A faded poster of Led Zeppelin, Dean’s secret childhood dream, glinted through the dust on the wall. A few of Dad’s books, mostly about hunting, were sitting on their usual shelf above the table, their order intact, their spines clean. A striped rug, worn with time and numerous pairs of shoes stepping on it, was lying at the foot of the bed. John Winchester was missed by both his sons, and yet, Sam never liked that room. Back in the day, he refused to move there when Dean had offered it to him, and always found excuses to avoid going in there. Dean knew why. Sam and Dad didn’t get along.

The air in the room was stale, and Dean opened the window to get rid of it.

“We haven’t used this room for a while… And I wasn’t expecting anyone. Here…” He took a set of clean bedsheets from the closet and tossed it on the bed. “Help yourself. Anything else? A lullaby? A teddy-bear?”

Surely that was a joke, but Castiel squinted as if he was seriously weighing his choice. _Weirdo._

“Thank you, but no.”

Dean grinned and before he could stop himself, tapped Castiel lightly on the shoulder.

“Sweet dreams, then.”

He closed the door behind himself and headed downstairs. He had a phone call to make.

#

“Sam, would you mind explaining me what the hell was that?”

For a while, the line was silent. Then, Sam grunted, drew a sigh, and said, “So I take it, the British guy has made it to you.”

“Turned up on my porch like a goddamn Jehovah's witness.”

Sam choked out a chuckle. “I hope he’s still alive?”

“Sleeping like a dog.” Dean took a breath to gather himself. “Sam, I don’t remember asking you to find me company. In fact, I remember right the opposite.”

“Yeah, right… But, Dean, I told you, staying alone just doesn’t work for you. I mean, I thought you might enjoy it…”

“Enjoy what exactly? Babysitting? Entertaining? Taking him out like a cousin from the country? What makes you think I might enjoy any of that?”

“In his online profile, he looked like a nice guy,” Sam noted.

“He is. What difference does that make?”

“And quite good-looking,” Sam went on.

That one was tricky. “Huh… well, he kinda is. Sam, will you ever stop trying to organize my private life?”

Sam’s response followed in no time. “No.” And after a brief pause, he spoke again, “You didn’t kick him out, did you?”

Dean pursed his lips and stared at the ceiling, glad that Sam could not see him. “He had nowhere else to go. So… so yeah, I said he could stay.”

Although Sam was far away, he probably caught something from Dean’s weasel words, for he laughed and said, “So there’s no way back, right?” His voice went serious as he added, “Dean, don’t panic. Like, it’s just one week, and then he’ll be gone anyway. One week won’t kill you. Just give it a try, okay?”

Dean hung up.

One week would not kill him, he repeated to himself. Sure it wouldn’t, but neither would it do any good. Usually, he found it easy to get on with strangers. He would chat and joke, grin and talk about any crazy shit that would come to his mind. But the moment he would try to get to know someone better, start _thinking_ , he got paralyzed. Dumb and awkward, he would just stretch the time, wondering only how to escape. A one-time buddy, that’s what he was. In all its meanings.

He collapsed on the couch and rubbed his eyes. No matter how hard he kept thinking it over, Sam was right: there was nothing Dean could change right now. His weird guest, alive and real, was napping upstairs, and no closed eyes could make him disappear.

The dishes from breakfast were still sitting on the coffee table. Dean started to collect them, calculating what to put on his grocery list. If they were going to eat like that, his fridge stock wouldn’t last. As he lifted the tray from the table, he saw the ad printout that Castiel had accidentally forgotten. Mechanically, he took it and looked at the text. His eye somehow picked one specific line from it, “Preferred guest gender: No preference.”

No preference.

_Sam, you goddamn son of a bitch._

#

“Hello, Dean.”

Apparently, while waiting, Dean had fallen asleep, and the voice awakened him. He flinched, barely keeping his balance on the couch, and looked up.

Castiel was towering above him, smiling slightly. He was freshly shaven, his outfit set in order. It was hard to tell if the suit was the same that he’d been wearing before, but if not, it certainly was its blood brother. His look of a ready-to-go traveler was annoyingly enthusiastic.

Dean put his feet on the floor and yawned.

“Hey, you ever heard of knocking?”

Castiel cast him a surprised stare. “But there is no door.”

If Dean were fully awake, he never would have said a stupid thing like knocking at the nonexistent door. He sweared mutely. It always started like that.

He stretched, yawned again, and got up from his couch. Talking to someone looking upwards never helped.

Now that they were facing each other, Dean could see Sam’s point. _Quite good-looking_ was probably a significant understatement, as what Dean was looking at right now, was the most intriguing, smart, and handsome face he’d ever seen.

He swallowed. Then swallowed again. They were standing too close to each other but Dean didn’t have the guts to step back.

“Look…” he muttered, averting his gaze before it got too far, “I don’t feel like going out today. What if we just get a pizza and stay here? Maybe watch something if you’d like to… Or start reading your guide book? Don’t know… What do you think?”

“Whatever you say, Dean.” No objection, nothing — as though he was fine with any option. Castiel paused a moment and said, “Anyway, it’s too late to dine out.”

Dean glanced at his watch. “It’s just half past nine.”

“Isn’t every place closed at that time already?”

“Not unless it’s closed forever,” Dean said with a laugh. “It’s America, Cas. Here, you can eat _any time_.”

“Oh, really? This is very helpful.”

Unexpectedly, Dean became curious. “And what time do you guys normally close?”

Castiel gave it a thought. “Eleven is the latest for almost everything I can think of.”

“And when do they open?”

“Eight at the earliest.” He cracked a tiny smile, “So if you are not lucky to get some food in between, you will end up starving.”

Dean grinned back and fished out his phone to dial for a pizza delivery. Waiting for the phone to be answered, he covered the speaker with his palm and asked, “Pepperoni or BBQ?”

“Whatever is closer to ham and mushrooms, please.”

Dean nodded and placed the order. He hesitated a moment about the drinks, not sure what to get for Castiel and reluctant to ask. Having suddenly recalled that Brits drank tea, he added a bottle for Cas and a soda for himself. After last night, he wasn’t in the mood for anything else.

“They’ll get it here in forty,” he said flopping on the couch, TV remote in his hand. “What was it that you were watching in the morning?”

“BBC Earth.” Castiel sat down too, keeping a safe distance from Dean. “I should apologize to you for this morning, Dean. That… that must have been quite embarrassing. I wasn’t aware that you were not the one who had placed that ad. I should have asked you first, but after my long journey, I wasn’t thinking clearly enough… I am still experiencing consequences of  jet lag. Perhaps I am not used to having dinner at five o’clock…” He looked at his hands, folded neatly on his lap. “I am sorry, Dean. I didn’t even ask if you have any commitments for this week. Usually, the hosts take a few days off work to receive visitors, but obviously, your case is different.”

Impressed with such an ample speech, Dean shook his head. “I’m on vacation.”

“And you are not going anywhere?”

“Not anymore,” Dean said, trying not to sound bitter. “I was planning to, but my brother went on a trip with his girlfriend instead.”

“Oh… I am sorry to hear that.”

“It’s fine.”

They both went silent for a while. Dean was clicking the remote, browsing through shows, and Castiel kept staring down. It felt a bit strange to be sitting like best buddies with someone Dean only had met this morning. Strange but rather comfortable — as long as Dean didn’t have to say anything.

He glanced sideways. In his dark suit, Castiel looked like a party guest that had been forgotten to be introduced. He had the same unperturbed expression that Dean had seen already, his chiseled profile lit softly with the tv’s cold blue light, and perfectly still. It was one of those faces that didn’t get forgotten easily, and with each minute passing by, Dean’s intention of keeping away from his guest was giving up ground.

“Do you travel a lot?” he asked.

“When my company needs me to.”

“Must’ve seen the world, huh?”

“Partly. Traveling for work is not the same thing as taking a vacation, Dean. Most of what I see is the airport and the office. With some taxis in between. Sometimes, I even don’t go beyond the airport. In some locations, though, that’s not a bad thing.”

“How’s that?”

“For instance,” Castiel explained, “in Dubai, it’s so hot in summer, that no one in good conscience ever goes outside. Your clothes gets wet in seconds. The soles of your boots melt into the pavement. You can hardly breathe. Locals endure it somehow, but foreigners prefer to visit in winter.”

“But you weren’t lucky?”

“It felt like I had been sentenced to a week in Hell.”

Dean burst out laughing. “Yeah, sounds like it.” He suddenly visualized Cas pacing the airport terminal, dragging his yellow suitcase along, and squinting at the flight boards. He never experienced any of that before but the image seemed weirdly attractive. Maybe it wasn’t about the airport, though. “And what’s the full list?”

Castiel shrugged his shoulder. “It’s pretty long.”

“Like Up in the Air long or what?”

“I’m not sure what you mean by that, Dean. But well, to name a few… Helsinki, Paris, Beijing, Tokyo, Sidney…”

“Okay, I got it.” Dean raised his hands in surrender. “Everywhere.”

“Except the Americas. It wasn’t my area until recently.”

Dean nodded, wondering inadvertently what type of job could have areas the size of a whole continent.

“Cas, no offense, but why, of all places, did you pick Lawrence?”

“That is actually very easy, Dean,” Castiel said with a smile. “I opened Google Earth.”

“And?”

“And in this program, Lawrence is the default starting point. I had nothing specific in mind about my destination, so I became curious about taking a closer look at what appeared to be the geographical center of America.”

“Awesome,” Dean grinned. “I never knew that.”

“You just didn’t Google your home country.”

The pizza man came. Dean took the delivery and placed the open boxes on the coffee table. Compared to Dean’s BBQ, Castiel’s ham and mushroom pizza looked ridiculously modest, and Dean wondered momentarily if it was his real taste or some dietary prescription. With one health-obsessed member of the family already in place, having another eco-bio guy around didn’t seem like a good idea.

Castiel observed his box with the narrowed eye of a Michelin expert over a haute cuisine meal. As he slowly tore off the first triangle and started to eat, his expression remained unreadable.

“Is it good?” Dean asked, unable to handle it any longer.

“It is three times thicker than any pizza I had so far,” Castiel said evasively.

Dean did not respond.

Netflix was still on, and he picked up an episode of the _Star Trek_ he hadn’t watched for a while. With the first beats of the soundtrack filling the room and William Shatner’s voice saying his famous first words, Dean’s spirits gradually lifted. Against the space-scented drama of the characters at the edge of the galaxy, his own feelings about the overseas guy criticizing pizza seemed negligibly minor. In twenty minutes, Dean was almost calm and following the action. In a half hour, he was interested enough to not pay attention to the chewing by his side.

It wasn’t until he heard the shuffling of the pages that he came down back to earth. With a little book in his hands, Castiel was keeping only half an eye on the screen. As the show went on, he glanced down more and more often, his lips moving slightly as if he was reading to himself. Dean could not see the cover, but judging by the color pictures on each page, the book could be nothing but the guide.

“Don’t you like that?” he asked, gesturing at the screen. If Trek wasn’t good enough, he didn’t know what else was.

Castiel shook his head. “I do. But, Dean, did you ever know that migrating birds stop in Lawrence?”

“They search Google Earth too?”

“Unlikely.” He turned the page. “And you can see herons around the lake in the Prairie Park.”

“Uh-huh.”

Dean was barely able to hide his disappointment at his guest’s interests. In Dean’s coordinate system, wildlife meant only blazing sun, mosquitoes, and burnt food.

He came back to Star Trek. He made it as far as Mitchell’s eyes glowing silver, when Castiel spoke again.

“There is a Lavender store at Washington Creek. Truly amazing, isn’t it?”

“Yeah.”

“And a nice example of a family business.”

Dean honestly could not see how a farm was more interesting than the _Enterprise_ landing on Delta Vega. He clenched his teeth and stared at the screen.

It wasn’t even five minutes until Castiel interrupted him again.

“Oh, there is even a haunted place here. The Eldridge Hotel.”

“And the Stull Cemetery,” Dean said, rolling his eyes. “Look, if you’re after creepy stuff like that, count me out.”

“I am not,” Castiel reassured him. “Once, I went on a so-called ghost tour in London. People peeing on the walls of the alley where Jack the Ripper presumably had killed his first victim made me forever immune to anything even distantly creepy.”

The episode ended. Dean took the remote to switch the TV off and noticed an empty pizza box next to his. Unless Castiel was extremely hungry (which was hardly being the case after the breakfast they had had), he really liked it. Ridiculously happy, Dean closed the boxes to take them away.

“I have to admit that America won that round,” Castiel said behind him. “The pizza was deadly huge but fabulous. I liked it.”

_I figured that,_ Dean thought in silent triumph, _but what the hell stopped you from saying that?_

He turned back to say, “I’ll see what you say after you taste pie.”

He almost missed the moment Castiel looked up, meeting Dean’s eye. His expression went serious, almost solemn.

“I would like that.”

#

Sam’s call caught Dean on the verge of falling asleep.

“How’s Detroit?”

“Windy. But the Great Lakes are fantastic. How is it going?”

Dean paused a moment, thinking how to make it brief but comprehensive.

“You’d make friends,” he grumbled. “Birds, lavender, and the supernatural. And yeah, the Google stuff. Nerd. Just like you.”

Sam laughed. “I’m certainly not interested in lavender. Well, at least not that much. And Google is a great thing.”

“He saw the whole world,” Dean went on.

“But that’s cool? I mean, maybe he can tell you something that’s not in your car repair manual?”

“And he speaks that goddamn BBC English.”

“Don’t tell me you can’t understand it.”

Dean sighed. Annoyed at first, now he was rather glad that Sam had called. For some reason, unlike usual, Dean felt a need to share his mood with someone who would understand the point. Although he was still a bit angry with Sam, there was no one else trustworthy enough. _Solitude is not your thing,_ he remembered. Probably, after all, Sam was right.

“I can. It’s just… I have no idea what to talk about with him. He’s like from another planet. Another galaxy.”

For a while, Sam was silent. Dean waited with patience that he didn’t expect from himself.

“Dean, just give it some time, okay? Just… a little more time, and we’ll see what happens. I never heard of two people that would get along right away. I mean, even without… um… subtext. In college, in the office, everywhere. If you ever worked somewhere else than at Bobby’s, you’d know that. Maybe if you spend some more time together, you’ll find some… common topics.”

“I’m not sure I want to.”

“I’m sure you do.”

Dean took a deep breath. Sam was right — again.

“Sam, he didn’t even want to watch Star Trek.”

“And you couldn’t pick something else?” Sam moaned. “Everybody watched Star Trek years ago, Dean. He probably knows it better than you do.”

“No way he does.”

“Okay, anyway… That doesn’t mean anything. Just get to know him better, and it’s gonna be all right.” With Sam was talking like that, it was very hard to argue. He didn’t use that trick of his too often, at least not with Dean, but when he did, it always worked. “You hatched any plan for the week already?”

“We’re working on it,” Dean said, not willing to tell Sam about the guide book. “Any ideas?”

“I’d say… What if you take turns choosing? Like, one day you pick a place to go, the next day he does, and so on… that could be fun, right?”

“It’s fun already.”

“Dean.”

Sam didn’t add anything else, it was just the tone he used that said it all.

“Okay, I’ll think about it.”


	3. Tuesday

By the afternoon of the next day, they had visited three museums, two art galleries, Haskell Cultural Center, and that goddamn lavender store. The plan also included a symphony orchestra concert at Lied, but to Dean’s great relief, all the tickets were sold.

He was exhausted. His feet were sore. His face was sunburnt. Ready to die, he leaned on the hot brown wall of the building and closed his eyes.

“Cas, for the life of me, I can’t make it any further.”

At first, taking turns as Sam had suggested looked like a good idea. In the morning, when Dean had made the suggestion (without mentioning its original author, though), Castiel agreed right away. His pale face brightened in anticipation, his eyes shone like those of a kid on his first trip to Disneyland.

“Just to make sure I understood correctly,” he said, frowning a little, “whatever I choose, you’ll join me?”

Dean nodded, “Yeah. And whatever I think of, you’ll come along.”

“Brilliant.” He produced his guide book out of his pocket and added, “I have a draft plan for today.”

Dean stared at him, barely believing. “Today’s mine, isn’t it?”

“Yours was yesterday.”

And Castiel smiled — shyly, with just the corners of his mouth, somewhat uncertainly, like that of someone who doesn’t smile a lot. Even so, it really became him when he did, and Dean liked that.

He felt there was a catch, but he could not say no — thus ending up on a cultural tour that he’d never seen even in his worst nightmares.

The list of attractions that Castiel had chosen for them was horrible. It seemed that he just picked every single item from the _Arts & Culture_ section of his guide, and now the items written in a neat, copperplate handwriting, took up a whole sheet of paper. At the sight of it, Dean let out a mute moan.

What was even worse was that they didn’t take the car. Most of the places they were about to visit were located downtown. In some mysterious, totally inexplicable way, Castiel had persuaded Dean that it would be easier and faster if they walked. When Dean regretted his weakness, it was too late. They were way too far to go back for the car. With half a mile being the longest distance Dean remembered himself walking, the prospect of spending the whole day on his feet was terrifying.

It wasn’t just walking. As Dean stepped onto the entrance staircase of the first museum, his feet became leaden. He wasn’t a museum guy. It had probably been around middle school that he last visited such a place, and he never lamented it. He was fond of a very limited period of history, just a couple of certain decades from the twentieth century, and everything beyond the eighties immediately made him bored. He was fine with that, not really caring what others could say about his choice, and secretly, he was even proud of it. Maybe his expertise was a narrow-focused one, but it was expertise after all.

It turned out that Castiel was not just flipping the pages the day before. Obviously, he had read his little book and was well-prepared for the tour. As he stopped by the exhibit items, he mentioned what he’d learnt about it, or dropped an occasional remark about the collection on display. He spoke subtly of detail, drawing focus to the main point. His descriptions were concise and informative, his voice totally lacking the tutorial manner of the guides Dean had met before. Castiel had a gift for narrative.

At first, he was merely enjoying the deep sound of Castiel’s voice, not caring about the meaning of the words. But as they progressed through the halls, Dean caught himself  listening to the facts as well. With every dozen steps he took he was getting more and more involved. Once or twice, he even asked questions — and was rewarded with a smile and a thankful look. His mind was following the story, his eyes following Castiel’s lips.

As much as Dean was enjoying all that, by the time they left their last destination on Castiel’s list, Dean barely felt his feet.

“You look tired,” Castiel told him, furrowing his eyebrows.

“That’s because I _am_ tired,” Dean muttered. “Next time, we’ll drive or I’m not coming.”

“Of course, Dean.”

His voice was almost guilty, and Dean could not but forgive him.

“Thanks for the tour.”

“You are welcome, Dean. Although I suppose it wasn’t all that interesting for you.”

_It was._

Dean cracked a smile. “Have I earned my dinner?”

Castiel looked at him in surprise.

“Absolutely.” He took a moment, then went on, “I think it would be fair if the organiser of the day pays for the meals. Do you mind if I choose the restaurant for tonight?”

Dean didn’t.

#

He probably should have asked where they were going. It wouldn’t make things better, but at least, it would have allowed him to get prepared somehow. Surprises of that kind definitely were not something that Dean liked.

The place that Castiel picked had a maitre d’ at the entrance, velvet curtains, menus in thick leather folders, and no one in the dining room wearing plaid. The moment they sat at the table, Dean felt like a truck amongst limousines. In places he usually visited, he could wear anything and nobody would notice. He could even come naked and would maybe get only an approving glance. In places he was used to, no one cared about other people’s looks. In places he liked, he could feel welcome even having a guy in a suit in company. Here, none of that seemed likely.

He gritted his teeth and sat back in his chair. His mood was barreling down.

In contrast to Dean’s mixed feelings, Castiel appeared to be like a fish in water. His head slightly bent down, he was flipping the menu pages, reading them carefully. He stopped for a moment on the _House Specials,_ then went on to the main courses. His left eyebrow was raised slightly, as though he was surprised with something in a pleasant way. Dean had no idea what that was.

An uniformed waiter came to take their order for drinks. Castiel went for a glass of red wine. Just to spite him, Dean asked for a beer. He caught a glimpse of the waiter’s disapproving scowl as he took Dean’s wine glass away.

“What’s the matter, Dean?” Castiel asked suddenly. “Is anything wrong?”

Silently, Dean surveyed his porcelain plates, surrounded by two forks and three knives, and shook his head.

“I’m wondering,” he said, taking one of the knives, a dagger-like silver thing, “if this can kill any ghost in the Eldridge Hotel.”

Castiel frowned but said nothing.

They ordered their meals. Castiel chose something so complicated that the only thing Dean understood about it was that between French-sounding words, it had beef and broccoli. Instantly, he felt his mood go down a few points more. He picked a random steak for himself and shut the menu.

The conversation was flagging. Being clearly out of out of place, most of the time Dean was keeping a defensive silence and barely looked up from his plate. He sensed that whatever he could say would sound irrelevant, lame, or even stupid. His wit drowned in the garlic sauce, his potential pick-up attempts were stuck in the medium-done meat. He went on poking at his porcelain plate without experiencing any taste. He wanted that evening to end, and even Castiel’s gentle smile and long stares (sometimes, Dean’s mind hinted, too long) could not make it better.

Dean ordered one more beer, then another. Being drunk never helped him the way he’d hoped, but at least it did the job of killing time. Now, it wasn’t even doing that. Before Dean knew it, his tongue went loose, and in reply to Castiel’s remark on the beauty of Lawrence, he blurted,

“Do you have an idea how much horsepower a 502 Big Block makes?”

Castiel stopped chewing and gazed at Dean. “No.”

“Five hundred fifty. Five goddamn hundred fifty… Just imagine, Cas, how it storms ahead as you hit the gas… It shoots like a rocket. It leaves you biting dust as it goes beyond the horizon. It just nails you.”

“Dean…”

But Dean got the bit between his teeth.

“No, just listen… That’s one of the best engines ever made. I’m not saying it’s the fastest,” Dean pointed out with his fork, “the stuff the guys at Bonneville Lake shove into their cigars makes more, but come on, get me a couple of those Quick Fuel carburetors, and we’ll see who’s gonna be first…” With a knowing smile, he lowered his voice, “I was thinking of a turbocharger.”

“Of what?”

“Let me show you.” Dean put down his fork, took two knives, one in each hand, and moved his plates apart. “Imagine this is an engine, okay? Cool air enters the engine's air intake here,” Dean placed one knife perpendicular to the edge of the table, “and heads toward the compressor,” he moved his finger along the knife, then pointed at the left plate, “there, you see? The fan sucks air in, the compressor squeezes and heats up the incoming air and blows it out again.” He put the second knife adjacent to the plate, “Hot air passes through the heat exchanger, which cools it down. Then this cooled air enters the cylinder's air intake, here…” He placed his folded napkin beneath the knife, “And waste gas from the cylinder exits through the exhaust outlet, like this,” he moved the first knife to the right top corner of the napkin, pointing at the second plate, “The hot exhaust gases, blowing past the turbine fan, make it rotate at really high speed.”

Castiel appeared speechless. He was eyeing the scheme made of plates and knives with the puzzled expression of Einstein seeing a laptop.

Dean paid no attention. “Of course, the spinning turbine is mounted on the same shaft as the compressor.”

“Of course,” Castiel mumbled.

“And as the turbine spins, the compressor spins too. Obviously, that’s just one cylinder.”

“Obviously.”

Dean chuckled contentedly. “So what do you think?”

“About what?”

“About the turbocharger, what else?”

He went on explaining the benefits of the device, comparing the outcome with that of other power enhancement options, calculating the cost of extra fuel and extra power ratio. He was so rapt that he hardly noticed if Castiel was listening. Fatigue and beer, or rather, just being a misfit, had taken its toll, and Dean merely couldn’t stop.

He would probably talk until the closing time, if it weren’t the waiter who finally interrupted him.

“Are you done with your meal, sir?”

Cutting himself off in mid-sentence, Dean looked up.

“What?”

“Your meal.” The waiter cast a meaningful glance at Dean’s plates and cutlery, still arranged into a turbocharger layout. “Did you finish yet?”

Dean’s shoulders sank, all his excitement vanished. He glanced indifferently at the waiter, then, for a moment, his eyes stopped at Castiel who was staring into his empty glass of wine like a fortune teller would read her coffee grounds. His face was expressionless, and all of a sudden, it made Dean realize how foolish he’d been with all this talk.

“Yeah, you can have it…” he muttered, pushing his plate away. And to ruin everything that hadn’t been ruined yet, he added, pointing at Castiel, “The damage is on him.”

#

The way back home didn’t stick in Dean’s memory. Mechanically, he got out of the taxi and unlocked the door. In the same mechanical way, he entered the living room, picked up a TV remote and flopped onto the couch, his boots up on the coffee table. Not a single thought had crossed his mind, not a single word dropped from his tongue. That evening, he’d already said too much — and there was more than enough mechanics about it.

He barely registered the moment when Castiel went upstairs. Just as Dean, he was silent, but his silence, unlike Dean’s half-drunk courage, had a strong scent of embarrassment. Maybe, Dean thought sarcastically, he just hurried up to Google turbochargers.

That night, he called Sam himself. It took a while before Sam picked up, and when he finally did, Dean said,

“Am I interrupting something kinky?”

Sam snickered, “Not anymore.” There was a shuffling sound, then someone’s low laughter, and silence again. “So how was the day?”

“The Watkins Museum was built in 1888.”

“Great. He’s educating you, isn’t he?”

“And exercising too. I walked about ten miles.” Dean stretched out his aching legs, all muscles stiff with unusual fatigue. “Son of a bitch.”

“That’s good for your health,” Sam noted reasonably. “When else would you walk that much?”

“Voluntarily? Never.”

They both laughed. Although Sam was far away, talking to him felt relaxing. Before he noticed, Dean went on speaking about the events of the day and places they had visited. When he came to talk about dinner, Sam suddenly stepped in.

“Oh, I think I know that one… At the corner of Mass and East Fifteenth, right?”

“How would you know it?”  

“I… um… I was invited there once… When we won that Stone case, remember?” Sam was an attorney in a small law firm, and each case they won was celebrated in a big way. Dean didn’t remember that exact one, though. “I felt the same. Too posh for me, like, suit and tie posh. But the food is good, right?”

“Traitor.”

They laughed again.

“Hold on,” Sam said as they stopped. “After all, it’s not gonna change your entire life.”

 _I wouldn’t mind that_ , Dean thought. Then, out loud he said, “I think I screwed that one up, Sam. I suck at table talk, I always knew that.”

“What was it this time?” Sam asked, his voice suddenly serious. “What did you speak about?”

“Turbochargers. Horsepower. Engine enhancement.”

Sam took a long moment. “Oh.”

“Sounds damn sexy, doesn’t it?”

“Depends on who’s talking,” Sam said unexpectedly. “When you get on your hobby-horse, you can start a fire.”

“Just the right thing to do to burn the hell out of myself…” Dean raised his eyes to the ceiling, as if in attempt to find some kind of confirmation. “Damn it, Sam, why I did I ever go there?”

Sam’s little laughter over the phone sounded soothing. “Cool down and don’t drink anymore.”

“How do you know that I drank?” Dean bridled.

“Every time you do, you get sentimental.”

Dean lowered his phone and ended the call.

 _You get sentimental,_ he repeated to himself. _Things you didn’t want to know about yourself, just ask your brother._


	4. Wednesday

Dean woke up early. For a few minutes, he didn’t move, just kept lying in his bed, staring at the ceiling and enjoying the surrounding silence . The house was perfectly quiet, only a light breeze was softly shuffling the window curtain.

He reached out for his watch. It was almost seven in the morning.

He yawned and stretched, preparing to get up. His muscles were still sore from the crazy day before, and for a minute or two, he studied his bare feet, trying to find any trace of damage. There were none, though, and Dean winced. He had no excuse to staying home that day.

He had no idea where to go. After the day that Dean considered his biggest personal disaster, going out again was the last thing he wanted to do.

A butterfly flew into the room. Dean watched as it rounded the ceiling lamp and landed on the lampshade. The butterfly’s yellowish wings, tiny as a flower’s petals, suddenly made him envious. The butterfly was free just to be itself, it didn’t need to pose as a local guide.

It suddenly occurred to him that he could get some ideas in the movies he had watched. He strained his memory, trying to find examples of where the characters were taking their guests. Opera, like Edward Lewis? No, thanks. Helicopter tour, like Beau Burroughs? Damn, no. Hollywood, like whoever else? Too far. He might as well have lived in the desert.

Nothing worked. He should never have agreed to take turns on days. Not with his way of living.

Dean looked up at the butterfly again. It flapped its little wings and flew away. In a moment, it was lost in the sunlight outside.

He frowned. Sunlight. Summer. Nice weather. _The lake._ Why not, he thought, anyway it would be better than crowded downtown streets again. He got up and dressed, wary to lose his courage. In less than five minutes, he was heading downstairs.

Surprisingly, Castiel was already awake. Dean found him sitting in the living room with a book in his hands, a half-full glass of water on the coffee table.

“Morning,” Dean greeted him. “Sunshine for the early birds, huh?”

Castiel glanced up and put his book away. “It’s afternoon in my time zone.” He yawned, belatedly covering his mouth with his palm. “Sorry, I cannot function properly without a cup of coffee. Good morning, Dean.”

He looked sleepy, but there was some confusion in his voice, as if he regretted something. Dean met his eye for a moment, but failed to recognize the reason. Maybe it was only about the time zones and what he’d called jet lag. Maybe it had nothing to do with last night.

“Our deal is still in force, isn’t it?” Dean asked.

“As long as you want it to be.”

“Okay, then I have a plan.” Dean tried his best to keep his voice playful and relaxed. He wasn’t sure he was doing well. “It’s much shorter than yours was, and we’ll drive.”

“Where to?”

“Clinton lake. About four miles west of Lawrence.”

Castiel gave it some thought. While he was silent, Dean could not help eyeing his serene face, making guesses on the answer. They had a deal, of course, but it hardly meant that Dean could drag his guest out against his will.

_It would be nice, though._

At last, Castiel looked up. “This is a brilliant idea, Dean.” His lips cracked a tiny smile. “But I have one condition. Coffee comes first.”

Dean smiled back, hoping his expression was not too euphoric, and went to the kitchen.

They had a quick breakfast of cereal and of course a large pot of coffee. Drinking his, Dean kept sneaking looks at Castiel who was holding his mug with his both hands, as if in attempt to warm them. He had the elegant, well-cared for fingers of a white collar worker, pretty much like Sam’s (except Sam’s were much bigger). The way he was wrapping his mug looked almost tender, and Dean wondered inadvertently what else those fingers had used to wrap.

“That suit of yours is gorgeous, but the lake fish won’t appreciate it,” Dean said as they finished eating. “You’d better change, Cas.”

Castiel stared at him, stumped. “Would a t-shirt be appropriate?”

“Not just a t-shirt. More than that.”

Castiel rose and disappeared into the hallway. In ten minutes sharp, he was back. He had changed into jeans and a white polo t-shirt with an embroidered logo Dean could not recognize. His shoes were gone along with the business suit, now replaced with neatly tied sneakers. He looked like a first-time golf club visitor and although his casual outfit became him no less that the formal one, Dean guessed that this compartment of the yellow suitcase wasn’t opened very often.

Dean shifted and straightened up in his chair, his hand dropped between his thighs. The way Castiel was looking would make it a serious problem to stop staring.

“Is it better?”

Unable to think of a good answer, Dean just nodded in response.

He filled the cooler box with ice and, after a brief hesitation, drew an old picnic mat from the closet. He couldn’t remember that last time they’d used it. After he and Sam were alone, going out for a picnic didn’t seem that much fun anymore. Dean blew the dust off the folded mat and took his car keys.

Castiel was waiting for him outside. Dean unlocked the car and gestured him to get in.

A moment later, he heard, “There is no seatbelt here.”

“Don’t have one.”

“But how are you driving?” Castiel’s voice was a strange mixture of admiration and fear. “Is that even legal?”

Dean shook his head. “You can walk.”

Castiel sighed quietly and went silent. Dean started the engine.

He drove a ’86 Chevy Silverado, that behemoth of a car, big and heavy. The truck was an ideal workhorse for him, powerful and reasonably reliable to keep its driver and passenger safe. Dean liked that car the way a craftsman would like his tools: as long as they worked fine, he was happy. There was only one thing he sincerely enjoyed about his truck — its cassette player. Although it was as old as the car itself, it still worked and never ruined any of Dean’s cassettes. It only refused to eject them anymore.

He pressed a well-worn button and pulled off into the street. The sounds of _Sweet Home Alabama_ filled the truck’s interior.

“That’s Lynyrd Skynyrd,” Castiel said all of a sudden.

Dean nearly lost his wheel. “Do you know them?”

“Old World likes good music too,” Castiel said with a smile. “Watch the road, Dean.”

The day was rapidly getting better, and so was Dean’s mood.

They drove through the suburbs of Lawrence and pulled over near a grill bar to grab some take-out food. As Dean was back with a few nice-smelling bags and a six-pack of beer, Castiel sniffed the air and smiled at him.

“I think I’m loving your plan even more, Dean.”

Dean chuckled and got back at the wheel.

It was a short ride, and normally, Dean never ate in the car. Yet, the smell was so strong that it was hard to stand. Keeping his eye on the road, Dean reached out to one of the paper bags sitting on the seat between them, and in one furtive movement, pulled out a fry. Then, in the same innocent way, he threw it into his mouth.

In an instant, he felt he was being gazed at.

“You’d be amazed to know,” Castiel said in a casual voice, “that statistically, it’s only a negligible minority of all car accidents that happen because of people talking over their mobile phones while driving. The overwhelming majority are caused by people eating at the wheel.”

Dean snorted, but something made him swallow the bit he was chewing.

“Awesome.”

“Recently, there was research studying that phenomenon,” Castiel went on. “It revealed that subconsciously, genetically, humans tend to keep their grip on their food rather than on something else. Even facing mortal danger, an average human doesn’t drop his food. Because food is vital, and a mobile phone is not.” Unexpectedly, he reached out to the same paper bag and, quite unhurriedly, pulled out a fry for himself. “Fair enough, but annoying, isn’t it?”

“That doesn’t apply to eating passengers, right?”

Castiel didn’t let Dean catch him.

“I’m stress eating.”

“You’re stressed?” For a moment, Dean’s anxiety dove out again. He could not see what was wrong.

“Of course, I am, Dean,” Castiel said. “Maybe I'm stating the obvious here, but I’m stressed out at your driving on the wrong side.”

It was impossible to say if he was kidding or not, and Dean glanced sideways, trying to read Castiel’s imperturbable expression. His eyebrows furrowed, eyes fixed on the road ahead, he looked solemnly serious.

“Is it so bad?” Dean asked him.

“Oddly enough, yes,” Castiel replied, as if not noticing he was being watched. “It’s a rather tormenting experience. It’s more or less tolerable when we’re moving straightforward, but every time you make a turn, I get nervous. To put it simply, I freak out.”

He sounded so unusually pathetic that it made Dean feel guilty for being a part of his torture.

“Was is like that in other countries you’ve been to?”

“Not to that extent. And besides that, in other countries, I was always in the back seat.”

“Just stop staring at the road, okay? We’re almost there.”

Castiel sighed. “I need more fries to keep on trying.” He took another fry and turned to the window.

They reached the lake before long. Its copper-colored sand was still wet from the morning moisture, and the beach was almost deserted in the middle of a workday. Some rare visitors were scattered along the waterfront in small groups, some occupying the wooden tables, others had spread their belongings out on the sand. In the distance, some kids were building a sand castle in the middle of the playground. Happy with just sand and water, blissfully immersed into their work, they labored to build a construction big enough to shelter a grown cat. Their parents were watching them with cameras in their hands.

“Here?” Castiel asked.

“I know a better place. Come on.”

Dean waved to the left and started walking. They reached the trees and stepped onto a narrow trail leading deeper into a small forest adjoining the lake. After a few minutes, Dean led them to a clearing with just a thin strip of sand and a fishing platform hanging over the water. No one was there, even the voices from the main beach had been cut off by the trees’ foliage.

“Perfect,” Castiel said, looking around. “You have an eye for dream sites.”

Dean laid the mat on the edge of the platform, and they sat facing the lake. He opened a beer for himself and gave one to Castiel. On their right, the sun was rising, flashing the water with glittering silver. A few birds flew over them, noiselessly, soaring on their spread wings.

“It’s very quiet here,” Castiel said, squinting at the sun.

Dean nodded. “We used to go fishing here… When Sam and I were kids. Sometimes, Dad took us out for the day. We made a campfire and cooked what we’d caught. That was never enough and we came home ready to eat a horse.”

“Kids are always hungry.”

“Do you have any?” Dean asked and held his breath, suddenly scared to hear a “yes”.

But Castiel shook his head. “My brother does. Jack, his son, can eat as much nougat as you give him. His parents are quite concerned about that.”

“I never had as much nougat as I wanted,” Dean noted. “Only the last piece of pie was always mine.”

For a while, they were silent. Somewhat humbly, Dean’s mind went browsing his childhood memories, recalling those rare days when he’d been hanging out with Sam and Dad, driving out, having snacks at gas stations or road diners, and watching cable TV in motel rooms. Looking back, he couldn’t even remember the places they had visited, but that didn’t matter anymore. The time he’d spent with what had remained of his family was still precious. The food he had tasted was still the best in the world.

“What a fabulous place,” Castiel murmured. “I would love to live in a place like this.”

“It’s different when it rains,” Dean forced a grin. He hated rain. “Isn’t London good?”

“Of course it is. In its own way, London is an incredible city. With its history and culture, and some remarkably beautiful sites, it’s undeniably one of the best places in the world. Living there is a unique experience.” Castiel looked down, as though recalling something. “But it’s a big city, Dean, a truly huge one. Wherever I go, I can see the City skyscrapers, even from where I live. It feels like I never leave my office.”

“What’s your job?” Dean asked, inadvertently curious.

“Finance,” Castiel said vaguely. “I’m saving my clients from the hell of bankruptcy. Occasionally.”

Dean knew nothing about finance. “Sounds nice.”

“Sounds boring. And that's the way it is.” There was a strange bitterness in Castiel’s voice as he added, “I miss the open space, Dean. I haven’t seen a single bee in years.”

“Don’t you go out?”

“I do, but it doesn’t help. I work ten or twelve hours a day, and when I leave the office, the streets are empty. My last holiday was three years ago and the lesson I learned from it was that under no circumstances should you take your holiday in November.” He paused a moment and said, “That’s the opposite side of solvency, Dean. You earn enough money but you don’t have time to spend it.”

Dean had never had such an experience. “I’d rather have money than time,” he said.

Castiel sighed. “My brother Michael always told me exactly the same words.”

“But you disagreed?”

“Mutely. In my family, it’s considered inappropriate to argue with the elder relatives.”

“Little rebel, huh?”

“I wish I were… You know, Dean, as a child, I dreamed of helping other people, but my family wanted me to help other people’s accounts. If I were more persistent in following my own choice, perhaps by now, I would make a good doctor or a teacher…” Suddenly, he smiled, brushing all regrets away from his face with the skill of someone who was well-trained at keeping his feelings to himself. “And what about you, Dean? What was your dream?”

“I dreamed of selling hot dogs on Mass,” Dean said without hesitation. That wasn’t the full story, but it was safe enough to reveal.

“That was a very precise target,” Castiel admitted. “What stopped you?”

Dean shrugged his shoulder. “My old man dreamed of seeing me be an engineer. He died a week before I graduated.”

There was clear astonishment in Castiel’s eyes. “You were at university?”

“Don’t I look like someone who was?” Dean scoffed. “Okay, I know I don’t. Don’t care.” He sipped at his beer and opened another one. Talking about dreams always made him very thirsty.

Castiel cast him a concerned glance. “Did I say something wrong?”

Dean shook his head, maybe a moment too quickly to look genuine. “No.” He took another big gulp and muttered to the sky, “Dreams are stupid.”

“Why?”

“Because they never work out. See, you wanted to work for people and you’re working numbers. I wanted to… uh… do my stuff and I’m selling cars. So what was the point of dreaming? None. Zero. So yeah… No dreams, no disappointment.”

He heard some rustling by his side — Castiel had moved closer to him.

“Cynicism doesn’t suit you, Dean,” he said in a gentle voice.

Dean said nothing.

He finished his beer and lay out spread-eagled on the mat, sensing the warmth of the wood with his back. It had been years since he’d lay like that. With the sun climbing higher, its rays warming his face, he was starting to get sleepy. It was tempting to surrender to a lazy day’s mood, and if he were alone, Dean would probably go for it. Sleeping in front of Castiel was the last thing he wanted to do. At least, sleeping _alone_.

“Do they allow people to swim here?” Castiel asked suddenly.

Dean rolled on his side and looked up.

“Don’t you tell me you have your swimsuit on.”

Castiel nodded. “You said we were going to the lake, Dean. Isn’t wearing a swimsuit a natural thing here?”

“It sure is,” Dean grinned, his mind already working hard on building an image of Castiel undressing, Castiel diving, Castiel swimming, and, more importantly, Castiel getting out of the water. It took him an enormous effort to keep his eyes open.

He was somewhere in the imaginary middle of the action when Castiel interrupted him.

“Will you join me?” he asked. “Dean, I’ve got a confession to make. I’m not very good at swimming, especially in unfamiliar places. It would be stupid to come so far just to drown in shallow waters.”

“No fear, I'm here.” Dean started to pull down his jeans, revealing his own swimming trunks. “Coincidentally, I’m well prepared. Ain’t I the best host ever?”

“There’s no doubt about that.”

They undressed and went up to the edge of the platform. Despite the sun, the water below their feet seemed dark and opaque, reflecting their waving distorted bodies. For some reason, the sight momentarily gave Dean an uneasy feeling, the one he barely recognized over time — the need to protect. Now, it wasn’t Sam anymore, and most probably, a grown-up man who had made it all over the world didn’t need anyone’s care, but yet the feeling was there, intrusive and itchy. Dean shuffled his feet.

“Are you sure you want to dive? I mean, it’s safe and all that, I swear I know this place to the last inch, just… Maybe I’ll go in first?

Castiel gave him a suspicious look.”What for?”

“To mermaid you.”

“I’m not _that_ bad, Dean.”

“Your words, not mine.”

Castiel just shrugged at that. He stepped back, squared his shoulders and put his arms in the air as though he was about to fly up. His slender body strained, each muscle rippling beneath smooth skin, his shoulder blades drawn together. There was something weirdly magnificent about the way he was standing, like a giant bird surveying an endless ocean, something unrecognizably fascinating.

It was such a mesmerizing sight that Dean nearly missed the moment when Castiel took a short running leap and jumped into the water. He landed feet first, sending splatters all around, and in a moment resurfaced, smiling happily.

Dean chuckled, “If that’s not good, then I don’t know what is.”

“I didn’t say I was bad at platform diving,” Castiel replied, shaking his head. With his dark hair wet and sticking out, he looked like a cat after a bath. “Like many urbanites, I can dive but cannot swim. Are you coming?”

Dean wasn’t long in following him and plunged in. The water was June chilly, tickling softly at his skin, making Dean’s daytime drowsiness whip away. Before he came back to the surface, he felt newborn fresh.

It wasn’t as deep as he remembered. Standing erect, the water barely covering his chin, he could touch the sandy bottom with his toes. He smoothed down his hair and brushed the water from his face.

“Keep your head up and learn from the best,” he said teasingly and swam forward.

In a moment, Castiel followed him, though much slower. Indeed, he wasn’t a good swimmer, his body movements tense and stuttered, like those of someone swimming fully dressed. As he stubbornly struggled his way onward, cutting the water with his arms and hitting it with his feet, he didn’t even seem to notice that Dean was watching him over his shoulder. Castiel’s gaze was fixed on the surface of the water as if any minute it could split apart and suck him into its depths.

It didn’t feel like fun. In fact, it felt rather painful to watch any longer. Dean made the last stroke and turned back.

He swam back to where they could stand easily. The water didn’t feel cold anymore, just pleasantly refreshing. Reluctant to get out, Dean stopped and without any warning, spurted Castiel with a spray made by the sharp of his hand.

“Dean? What’s happening?”

Dean didn’t bother to answer. Laughing, amused by fake anger on Castiel’s face, he immediately went on with more and more sprays. Soon, they both were splashing brutally. Dean’s eyes were scarcely seeing anything but spatter, and his hands were punching water. In the rare moments of having a clear view, Dean noticed that Castiel was dodging away from the attacks with remarkable dexterity. It seemed that his work gave him a lot of exercise, or maybe he just had a natural talent for fighting in the water.

“How come you’re so skilled at that?” Dean blurted as they both took a brief break.

Unexpectedly, Castiel laughed. “Buses.”

“What you mean, ‘buses’?”

“When they drive past you during the rain, you have to throw yourself aside really quickly to stay dry.” He sent a spray of water in Dean’s direction and smiled smugly as Dean caught it with his face, not fast enough to turn away. “You definitely need some training here, Dean.”

_I’d love to have whatever training from you._

“Don't count on it, boaster.” And he dove to have the final word.

They dabbled in the water until they both were tired. Dean came out first and reached out to help Castiel climb back onto the platform. They shook themselves down and remained upright so as not to moisten the mat. Dean could not help taking a sneak peek sideways, where Castiel’s shoulders were glittering in the sun. A creek from his wet hair was going down his spine, and his eyelashes dripping water. It was almost unbearable to be so close and not to reach out, not dare to touch.

Dean’s own body was starting to feel that as well. Before it became too obvious, he sat down and embraced his knees with his arms. He needed something corny to distract his mind from dangerous dreams populating it.

“That jump of yours was good,” he said.

“Thank you. It wasn’t learned in the water, by the way.”

“Where, then?”

Castiel sat down nearby. “When I was at school, we used to jump into the sandbox in the playground. It was a pathetic excuse for sports, but it made us ridiculously happy.”

“I’d love to see you doing that,” Dean muttered before he realized what he was saying. Hastily, he looked away, but Castiel already tilted his head, his expression curious.

“I was ten years old, Dean. And that was quite typical entertainment in those days. For our climate, I mean.”

Dean nodded, relieved that his remark hadn’t evolved into even more embarrassment that he felt already.

“You don’t look like a Brit,” he said to make sure the topic was changed.

Castiel gave him a little smile.

“What do I look like, then?”

Dean gave it a thought. There was something about Castiel that made him seem as if he belonged nowhere — and everywhere in the same time.

“Don’t know. What’s that phrase… A citizen of the world, huh?”

“That is probably a backhanded compliment, but thank you.” His gaze wandered around, then stopped at Dean again. “May I ask what exactly do you know about Britain?”

“Why?”

“Just out of curiosity.”

“Okay,” Dean gasped for air and started listing, “Led Zeppelin, Harry Potter, Rolls-Royce, driving on the left side. Huh… And the Queen.” He looked up at Castiel who was trying in vain to conceal a grin, and asked innocently, “What, did I miss something?”

“Tea. We drink tea.”

“What’s so special about it? Everyone drinks tea.”

“Yes,” Castiel agreed, “but not the iced and bottled kind.”

Dean laughed. He had never thought he would ever be discussing cultural differences of two English-speaking countries. In fact, he wasn’t all that oblivious. The year he spent with Mick Davies, his British roommate, Dean learned much more about the ex-empire than he wanted to know. Some parts of it were well-forgotten, but some was still sitting somewhere in the depths of his memory and popped up easily now. It was strangely amusing to be playing dumb and teasing Castiel.

They went on chatting, both relaxed enough to drop an occasional joke and laugh (Castiel’s tiny smile meaning rampant joy) at it off hand. The tension that had been separating them before was gradually giving way to natural curiosity, and they shared the moment, enjoying their open-hearted talk. The awkwardness of their first days appeared to be gone, and now even the fancy restaurant and sightseeing hunt that Dean had been dragged into seemed to him hilarious rather than shameful.

This can be fun, Sam had said. Then, it sounded mocking, but now, it felt like it could be, indeed. After that day at the lake, uneventful as it was, Dean was inclined to admit he hadn’t had so much fun in years.

Technically, they didn’t get any closer in terms of their way of living. Dean realized clearly enough that he was still just a mechanic at Bobby’s garage and Castiel was doing his finance thing in London, and yet, some barrier, some kind of invisible wall splitting two people so different, had started to crack.

#

They stayed at the lake until dusk. Their food and beer were long gone, and on their way back, they pulled over at _The Fishing Hole_ , a small snack bar half-way back to the city. Although the last fisherman that had stopped there was long dead, the place kept its wild nature-friendly image with great care. The walls were covered with artificial nets — quite dusty, but because of that, they looked authentic — and fishing-themed paintings. Dean’s favorite, the one with a giant, glamorously pink salmon, was hanging above the chimney. Clinton Lake had never harbored salmon.

Dean waved to the waitress and took a seat at the table by the window. Castiel came up and stopped, hesitating.

“Do they serve meat courses here?”

“They serve whatever people ask for,” Dean said. “Come on, sit down.”

Castiel took his place and folded his palms at the edge of the old wooden table, slightly uneven with age and covered with a plaid plastic cloth. Watching him, Dean was pleased to note that Castiel didn’t show any kind of discomfort, even with his snow-white polo touching the iffy faux leather back of the seat. He just did not seem to care, and the cutlery bucket and stained ketchup stand caused him no problems. Strangely, he was fitting in here, in this place — as he probably would every place he visited — in his own manner, serene and a bit detached from everything around him. Dean had trouble saying whether it was an innate temper or a well-bred habit. It could be none or both but, as with every mystery, it looked incredibly attractive.

They got their burgers, each towering on its waxed paper like a monument to itself. Side-glancing, Dean caught a moment when Castiel licked his lips in anticipation.

“Sam would get mad at that,” Dean noted, pulling his plate, hot and heavy, closer to himself. “He believes in all that cholesterol-kills bullshit.”

“Is he your only sibling?” Castiel asked.

“He’s worth two. Maybe three if he stands up.”

“Is he so tall?”

Dean nodded, without going into detail. He knew the comparison would not favor him.

Both too hungry to go on talking, they started to eat. The burger was as perfect as Dean remembered it from years before, its mellow beef soaking, sliced bacon falling into his palms. Not caring what he looked like, Dean was right in the middle of picking up another slice when someone called him by the name.

“Oh my, isn’t that Dean Winchester? What a lucky day!”

Dean knew that voice. Forcing a smile, he turned back to face Pamela Barnes. She was an old friend of Bobby’s, and sometimes, Dean even liked her for her wit and savvy. Pamela was a rare woman with the looks of a doll and the brain of a scientist. She would probably make a good friend, if it wasn’t for her being annoyingly inquisitive. Her sharp eyes were always ready to sneak, her brain alert to analyze, and her tongue eager to discuss. And now, Dean realized, it was exactly such a moment.

“Hey, Pamela. What brings you here?”

“I’m on my way back to St. Louis. Mind if I join you?

Dean did. He did very much, and if he were alone, he’d just say so. For his sins, he wasn’t alone.

“Sure.” He moved along his bench, freeing up space for her. “Want a burger?”

Pamela gave him a smirk. “Jesse doesn’t like it when I’m fat.”

From what Dean had known, she was a few years older than him, but she was still in impeccable shape. Apparently, that Jesse, Pamela’s secret love interest that had deserved a named tattoo on her waist regardless of no one ever having seen him, had a different opinion.

“I thought Jesse was gone, huh?”

“Jesse is always around,” Pamela laughed, pointing at her back. “Okay, will you introduce me?..”

With a suppressed sigh, Dean obeyed, making it as short as “Cas — Pam.” He was already starting to see where the whole thing was going, and didn’t want it to last any longer than it had to.

Castiel, it seemed, had somehow sensed Dean’s nervous state. He greeted Pamela in a flawlessly polite yet formal way, and returned to his meal. By the size of the bite he took, Dean guessed that for at least next few minutes, Castiel would be silent.

“How is it going, Pam? What’s the current forecast prediction?” During their last meeting, Pamela had been a weather presenter on some crappy TV channel. Now, she could just as well work somewhere else, but it was worth a try.

Pamela shrugged.

“It’s gonna rain.”

“Where?”

“Somewhere. Sooner of later, somewhere it’ll certainly rain.”

“Fair enough,” Dean grinned, calmed down for a moment. “Hope it’s not gonna be Lawrence.”

Pamela gestured to the waitress, asking for coffee.

“Since when are you so concerned about the weather, Dean? Or has Bobby’s garage roof started leaking?”

“I’m on vacation.”

“Oh, I see.” Pamela narrowed her eyes and asked in the voice of a police interrogator, “Alone?”

Dean hesitated a few seconds, then said, “Sam’s gone the opposite direction.”

“Poor Dean.” She chuckled, pretending she was sorry, but went on straight away, “Or not so poor.” She nodded in the direction of Castiel and gave Dean a questioning look. “That’s your new boyfriend, right?”

It even wasn’t about the word _boyfriend_ that made Dean freeze still. It was about about the word _new_. Pamela had a excellent memory for other people’s exes.

Castiel stopped eating. Still holding his burger with both hands, he was staring at it, his expression blank. Dean had never seen him look like that before.

“Curiosity killed the cat, Pam,” he said in a flat voice.

“But satisfaction brought it back,” Pamela parried.

Dean pursed his lips. There was no way that she would get away without an answer, and whatever she was about to do with that information next, it made no sense to play nice.  

“Okay,” Dean said through his gritted teeth, “the answer is no. Cas is not my boyfriend. He’s my guest from abroad, um… from very far abroad. I’m just showing him around. You’re happy?”

Pamela laughed with her head back. “It’s yes and no, Dean, but mostly no.  Because I can’t understand why not.”

 _Neither can I_ , Dean thought.

“What do you care?”

She sipped at her coffee and gave him a meaningful look. “How long have we known each other, Dean?”

“Four years, maybe five,” Dean replied without thinking. “Why?”

“It’s six,” Pamela said. “Six years, and you never asked me out.” She drew a sigh and smiled, “Relax, I know you won’t. But it's fun to dream, though, right? You and Sam grew up too fast… Maybe your guest would be interested? I’ve always wanted to try a threesome.”

Castiel finally cleared his throat. “I am not interested.”

Dean was almost certain he would hear that, and yet, he breathed out a little sigh of relief.

“Try with someone else, Pam,” he advised.

“No worries.” She didn’t look upset or disappointed as she finished her coffee before rising from her seat. “Okay, boys, I think I need to go. Still have three hundred miles to make, and darkness freaks me out.” Then she leaned over and kissed Dean on the cheek, “Have fun, sweetie.”

She left, leaving behind a scent trail of some flowery perfume.

Dean was scared to even imagine what Castiel was thinking now about Dean, his family, the city of Lawrence, and probably about the whole America too. The awkward episode felt like they had been served an unexploded bomb, ready to go off any second. No excuse would help; what had been said, was there. Mutely cursing Pamela for her big mouth, Dean looked up.

Castiel finished his burger. He wiped his hands clean, folded a paper napkin, and arranged his knife and fork neatly. Then he paused a moment, exhaled a breath and reached out for his soda.

“It appears,” he said, taking a gulp, his expression unbelievably peaceful, as if nothing had happened, “that in America, they don’t feed you. They are killing you with food. I can hardly move, Dean.”

Dean waited for him to elaborate, but nothing followed.

“And… that’s kinda it?”

Castiel frowned, deep in his thought.

“Um… Actually, no,” he said at last. Then he glanced up and added, “Please drive carefully.”

#

Sam’s greeting had that unmistakable I-was-waiting-for-your-call tone.

“Well, what’s the good news?”

“Our old fishing platform is still there.” Dean took a sip of his evening beer. “The bad news is, he really can’t swim.”

“You couldn’t swim yourself until you were fifteen,” Sam reminded him. “But I totally approve of your choice of place.”

Dean smiled, happy that Sam was unable to see him. That blissful smile of his could tell much more than the scarce words he was planning to use.

“Yeah, that was awesome… We had a great time. And then, we met Pam Barnes at the Pink Salmon.”

He realized he’d said something wrong because Sam took a pretty long moment to answer.

“I probably don’t need to say that I approve your choice of the pronoun even more.”

“It doesn’t mean a goddamn thing.”

Sam gave him a snort. “You know it does.”

As they exchanged goodbyes, Dean was still thinking it over, hesitating to admit the obvious. He knew he could have said it differently, and after all, using that _we_ wasn’t a big deal. It hadn’t had to mean anything but the fact they went to eat together.

_People say that all the time, right? Right?_


	5. Thursday

The next morning, they woke up to the dripping cold rain and deep gray clouded sky. The forecast was no better, promising thunderstorms in the afternoon and evening. Cooking breakfast, Dean was eyeing the nasty weather through the kitchen window and cursing Pamela for her unexpectedly accurate prophecy.

Castiel sensed Dean’s mood.

“We don’t have to go outside if you aren’t up to it,” he said as they sat at the table. “Unless…”

Dean stopped with his mouth already full of bacon.

“What?”

Castiel averted his gaze. “I was wondering about that car dealership you work in.”

Dean didn’t remember mentioning it.

“Bobby’s? Ugh… It’s not what you think.”

“How do you know what I think?” Castiel said, raising his eyebrows, instantly making Dean curious about what exactly he was thinking. “I would like to see it.”

Dean shrugged, uncertain that it was a good idea.

“It’s just a garage, you know… old stuff being repaired… sort of. Not like a glass booth full of Hondas.”

“I can survive that.”

There was no argument left, and Dean said okay. He still had doubts, though. Some gut feeling was telling him that he was right, that he’d been on his hobby-horse quite enough, maybe even more than enough. Finally, like before with the day at the lake (which turned out to be fantastic), it was the garage or that damned guide book again. The garage won.

They finished their breakfast and went outside, Castiel in his trench coat, Dean wearing his old leather jacket. It was quite a pair that they made, and having caught their reflections in the window, Dean thought bitterly how hopelessly different they looked together.

Dean climbed into the car and started the engine. The cassette player blinked, clicked, changed sides, and went playing.

“Are we listening to Lynyrd Skynyrd again?” Castiel asked after a few notes.

Just a couple days ago, Dean would probably have ignored that question, or given some evasive answer. Now, he didn’t feel like doing either.

“It’s stuck in there,” he said. “I can’t eject it. I can only turn it off, if you don’t like it.”

Castiel just raised his eyebrow. “I’d like to listen to the other side.”  

Dean nodded, smiling, and they pulled out into the empty street.

At that time of the day, this part of the city was almost deserted, with only occasional passers-by dragging their children behind them or just hiding under their umbrellas, busy with their thoughts. Yet, Castiel was staring out the window, not bothered by the emptiness around them. It seemed that his stubborn-looking chin was saying, _I wanted to see the country and I’m seeing it no matter what_.

Bobby’s garage had the official name of _Singer’s Classic Cars._ In saying it had a lot of old stuff, Dean didn’t exaggerate: in fact, cars of various age and condition occupied the whole territory that Bobby owned. There was everything the American car industry had ever produced, starting from the fifties and going up to late eighties, from rusty Fords to shiny GMs. Muscle cars, vans, trucks, and pretty much everything that had a chance to start moving again, was sitting in Bobby’s shed with the corrugated metallic roof.

The business that Bobby Singer, the owner and the second (as well as the last) employee, was running, was built upon a simple idea: search the salvage yards, find something that wasn’t total crap, rebuild, repaint, and sell it to some crazy collector. The model or make didn’t matter; sometimes, it was Bobby’s choice, sometimes a car was found due to a request from a customer. The revenue he was making wasn’t great, but surprisingly, it was enough to cover the costs, including Dean’s modest salary.

Unlike Bobby, who was more of a businessman than a mechanic, Dean was much more of a mechanic and a very little like a businessman. He often stayed late at the garage, working until Bobby would kick him out, and never complained about dim lighting or oil-soaked clothes. He liked to think that each car he had repaired had gotten a little piece of his soul. Of course, he had never told that to anyone.

As they drove into the yard and Dean pulled over, Castiel’s eyes grew wide.

“This looks like an open-air car museum,” he said.

“You’re good with cars or something?”

“Not really. I have a driving license, of course, although I cannot even recall the last time I used it.”

Dean stared at him, not able to understand how that was possible. “So how do you get around?”

“By tube.” Castiel paused a moment and translated, “Underground. Sometimes by cab. I never drive in central London. That requires an enormous amount of time and nerve that I don’t have.”

He looked up and pointed at the entrance to the office, “Is that your manager?”

“More of a friend, but yeah, that’s him.” Dean opened the door of his truck and jumped down. “Hey Bobby!”

Bobby Singer was already coming to greet them. His ragged baseball cap was pulled over his forehead, looking as sulky as Bobby’s expression.

“Tell Sam to get you a GPS,” he grumbled in his usual half-scolding, half-caring manner. “You might’ve taken a wrong turn somewhere. It’s nowhere near to California.”

“It’s my ghost,” Dean joked, waving him off. “Bobby, this is…” He stopped, hesitating again over how to introduce Castiel — a visitor? An exchange guest? A friend? Then, it came out by itself, “This is Cas. From London.”

Castiel reached out for a handshake and said politely, “Castiel. Pleased to meet you, Mr. Singer.”

Bobby surveyed him from head to feet and nodded. “Do you want to buy anything?”

“He’s not a customer,” Dean hurried to say. “I’ll just show him around.”

“Show him that gold Lincoln Mark IV,” Bobby advised. “He might like it.”

Dean promised that he would, and pulled Castiel’s sleeve. “No one ever left here without buying something,” he said, smiling. “Come along. With me, it’s kinda safe.”

They spent a couple of hours at the garage. Dean was showing Castiel the cars they were working on, each having its own background and history, and a reason why it was there. With such a familiar and beloved subject on his tongue, Dean felt relaxed. He could talk about cars for hours, and from time to time he had to stop himself, so as not to make Castiel bored.

It was either Dean’s speaking abilities, or Castiel was genuinely interested. He listened carefully and surveyed each car body with an eye of a captious critic. Surprisingly, he even reminded Dean to show him the Lincoln that Bobby had mentioned. He didn’t say he’d buy it, though, but gave Dean an approving nod.

When the tour was over, Dean stopped at the end of the shed.

“Thank you, Dean.” Castiel looked around, as if uncertain whether he’d missed something important. Suddenly, he added. “I’ll think about that Lincoln, but no promises.”

“You said you don’t drive.”

“I don’t,” Castiel agreed, “but my brother’s company is a lifetime sponsor of the Goodwood Festival of Speed, the most famous historical motor-show in Britain. He might find an appropriate owner.”

That sounded ludicrous.

“For a left-hand-drive American car?”

“As far as I’m aware,” Castiel said in a stern voice, “they have different criteria for their choice than a car nationality.”

“But that’s just a crappy pimpmobile.”

“You’ll repair it.”

Dean raised his hands in surrender. “Okay, no problem. If your brother or whoever else wants it, the shipping’s on them.” Dean took a moment, then looked up and narrowed his eyes and asked in a deliberately casual voice, “Cas, do you want to see the real thing?”

Castiel, it seemed, felt that Dean had left something for dessert, for he responded immediately, “Of course, Dean.”

They rounded the crooked office building and entered the repair box. In its far corner, hidden safely under a fabric cover, sat the car that Dean knew down to the last screw.

“There she is,” he said, having abruptly pulled the cover off. “Meet my Baby.”

It was a black ’67 Chevrolet Impala.

He found her himself — smashed, rusty, its leather upholstery torn to pieces. Dean fell in love with her at first sight. He brought her to Bobby’s and settled her in the shed. He bought her the cover. He worked on her the way he never did with any other car. He knew her full history from  day one, when it had left the assembly line, to her last known owner, Sal Moriarty. If she were a woman, he would probably marry her. Long story short, for Dean she was the most perfect car in the universe.

He came up to the car and caressed her shiny roof with the tips of his fingers.

Castiel rounded the Impala, then bent to briefly peek inside. “Is that what they call a muscle car?”

“The best example of one.”

“It’s surprisingly elegant.”

Dean felt his cheeks warming up at the compliment. “Damn right.”

Castiel went on looking, then stopped by the rear of the car.

“I believe you can hide a body in her boot.”

“More than one,” Dean confirmed proudly, having winced a little at the British word. “Never had a chance, though.”

“I’m impressed.”

“She was was built in Janesville, Wisconsin, back in 1967,” Dean said. “I rebuilt her all by myself,” he said in a low voice. “From the pile of junk she used to be… We got her for seven hundred, way over our top limit. And then… I said I’d get on her. It took five years, you know. The parts were still expensive, and Bobby just didn’t feel like throwing even more money into her. But look,” he opened the door and turned back to Castiel, “look, isn’t she worth it?”

Castiel’s answer didn’t take long to follow, “You gave her a new life, Dean. And a happier one.” He took a while to make another circuit around the car. Glancing at the interior, his gaze lingered on the back seat a bit longer than normal curiosity would take. As he straightened up, he looked at Dean over the roof and asked, “So is she yours now?”

Dean grinned bitterly. “You kidding? She’s like new now and costs thirty thousand. Not money I can afford. She’s for sale.”

“Oh… I see.” Castiel looked down at the car, his expression thoughtful. “And… did anyone take a particular interest in her yet?”

“Not that I know of.”

Dean averted his gaze. Every time he thought about seeing Baby off, he hoped he wouldn’t be there. He felt his heart would just rip apart, his life ended. He knew that Baby didn’t belong to him and she never would, and yet, deep inside, he thought of her the way an exceptional parent would think of his child.

“Will you miss her?”

Dean picked up the cover from the floor and threw it on again, hiding his Baby’s shiny body.

He didn’t have guts to answer.

#

By the time they left Bobby’s, it had stopped raining. The sun broke out from the clouds, and in its light the roads were glittering with water. Everything around smelled new and freshly washed, and Dean lowered his window to let in some air.

He felt happy and a bit awkward, like a newlywed who had shown a hidden birthmark to his beloved one. There was the excitement of a shared secret and fear of other person’s indifference; and Dean could not say which was stronger. The more he was thinking about it, the more he doubted he’d done the right thing. He knew his passion for cars wasn’t that common, and of course, he had heard more than once that it wasn’t a proper job for someone with a university degree. He never cared about it — not until two days ago. With Castiel, it suddenly felt very important, and although the few words they had exchanged near the car were probably the nicest he could have heard, Dean was still anxious.

Lack of confidence, as always, made him hungry. It was early afternoon already, a good enough time to taste some hefty cuisine. Dean spotted a grill bar ahead and pulled over to the parking lot.

“I know it’s your day, Cas, but… Maybe you don’t mind a burrito?”

Castiel didn’t, and by the way his eyes gleamed, Dean guessed the timing was good for both of them.

They ordered and sat outside to wait, at one of the wooden picnic-type tables. Dean brushed off the last drops of rain from his seat and watched as Castiel did the same. For a brief moment, it looked like they mirrored each other, and Dean smiled cheerily.

“Where you come from, does it rain as often as they say?” he asked.

“I never leave home without an umbrella. Half the time, it’s not in vain.”

Dean grinned. He was getting used to Castiel’s habit of never giving a straight answer. It sounded a little weird but not annoying; it rather complemented Castiel’s whole image, yet shamefully under-explored.

“At least you guys don’t have tornadoes,” he said.

Castiel gave him a tiny smile. “They would immediately get stuck in the labyrinth of lanes and cul-de-sacs.” His expression saddened as he murmured, “But we’ll never have a chance to see the land of Oz.”

The way he said that, it sounded only partly like a joke, and Dean shifted in his place, trying to sense the other, true meaning of it.

“You don’t have to be Kansas-born to take off,” he said at last.

Castiel didn’t respond, his expression thoughtful and detached again, his palms at the edge of the table covering each other. It seemed that he had barely heard Dean’s last words.

Their food and drinks came. Dean took a good gulp of his beer and unwrapped the aluminum foil from the top of his burrito. Castiel did the same, inadvertently mirroring him again.

“Do you have these in London?” Dean asked him, keeping his eye on Castiel’s fingers.

“Sandwiches are more popular. At least, our HR thinks so.”

Surprised, Dean halted with a half-open burrito in his hand. “Do they feed you in the office?”

“Only during training sessions,” Castiel said with a smile. “Fortunately, they do not happen very often, perhaps, every couple of months or so. The schedule is released by our global headquarters.”

“White man's burden, huh?”

Castiel cracked a bleak grin.

“If Kipling were at our corporate meeting, he’d probably put it in a very different way. Politically inappropriate.”

Dean frowned. Everyone he had known before never spoke like that. Sometimes, people around him had reasons to complain about their jobs, but generally, they were more or less happy with what they did for a living. If they weren’t, they would just change their job, or move to another city, or start a business of their own. That was how Bobby had started years ago, and Sam’s boss too. None of them had any HR poking around, though.

“Why don’t you quit if you hate them so much?” Dean asked.

Castiel shook his head. “It’s not hatred, Dean. It’s a good job, and the compensation is more than generous… there’s even a share option. If I could just work, it would be all right. It’s not the job itself, it’s rather the general atmosphere of a badly-staged show that surrounds it. The scenery is set, roles assigned, and everybody is playing theirs. Sometimes it makes me think that I don’t belong there.”

“Maybe you’re just not a corporate man,” Dean supposed.

“Maybe I’m not. I feel like I’m trapped in a ridiculously expensive, luxuriously furnished, and perfectly comfortable glass cell.” Castiel tore off a piece of the foil and rolled it into a ball. For a while, and with an unreadable expression, he kept nudging the ball on the table surface with his two fingers. As he spoke again, his voice was low, “Sometimes, in my early days with the company, I used to look out of the window on my thirtieth floor. I imagined myself an angel watching over the lost souls, too distant to know them closer and too powerful to touch something earthly. It was an encouraging feeling, though, giving me false hope that I was the one to make a difference. Now, I know I wasn’t. It’s the corporate standard that was.”

“You sound like that's a bad thing.”

“It’s not. It’s just that we are tragically incompatible.” His tone became somewhat bitter, and as he went on, Dean guessed that it wasn’t small talk anymore. “We have one human resource manager, Naomi. In her spare time, she is an actress in amateur theatre. Probably, because of living other people’s lives so often, her training sessions are always very well done. They are more entertaining than educational, lively and informal. The way she speaks, you trust every word she is saying. She can tell you to go and kill a cat and you will do that without hesitation.”

“What’s wrong with the cat?”

“It’s just an example, Dean… She is very compelling when delivering the company message. In fact, she is the quintessence of the corporate spirit.”

“But?”

“But,” Castiel said without looking up, “once, I met her leaving the training room when she thought that no one was watching. She had a face of a mourner, Dean. It was all the grief in the world, her head bent low, her expression miserable. I wouldn’t recognize her, had we met somewhere else but the office. At training, it was just acting. All of it.”

Dean shrugged. “Everyone’s acting, Cas. One way or another.”

“You don’t.” Castiel gave him an unexpected smile, “No one with a cassette player in his car possibly can.”

Bewildered, Dean stared at him. Suddenly, he felt he wasn’t hungry anymore.

“What’s so different about me?”

“Everything.”

Dean said nothing. As they left the bar, their half-eaten burritos sitting on the table, and drove home in silence, he still kept wondering what that whole thing had meant. He couldn’t get rid of the thought that it was more than just a casual chat, that everything Castiel had been trying to say somehow sent Dean’s own brain wandering into the darkness in search of the answer.

Except no question had been asked.

#

“Oh my goodness, you did what?” Sam choked out as if he’d misheard.

“I showed him Baby,” Dean repeated, his voice falsely emotionless.

There was such a long silence that Dean thought the line had gone dead. At last, he heard Sam clearing his throat.

“You like him. You certainly do.”

“Shut up, Sammy.”

“Shut up yourself and stop calling me Sammy.” Sam chuckled, and Dean practically saw his brother shaking his head. “You never allowed anyone except Bobby and me to even approach her. You threatened to kill anyone who would just mention your treasure outside the garage. You were saving every cent to buy her — and don’t you deny you were — so that no one else would touch her. And you’re telling me that you showed your Baby to someone you’d only met a couple days ago just by chance?”

“I didn’t say that,” Dean snapped, feeling clearly that he’d been trapped. “It wasn’t even my idea to visit the garage, it was Cas who asked to go, okay?”

“Oh yeah, Cas… Sure, Dean, I get it. I bet you kept her a secret until after the tour.”

“No.”

“Yes. I know you.” Sam paused a bit and said, his tone softened, “Now it’s the four of us who were lucky to see her, right? I’m starting to feel like I belong to the Dead Cars Society.”

“Baby’s not dead.”

“Okay, Old Cars Society,” Sam readily corrected himself. “Never mind. Dean, it’s getting serious, you know that?”

_I do._

“We’re just having fun,” Dean said with pretend joy. “Just like you advised, Sam.”

For a long moment, Sam was silent. Then, in an untypically hushed voice, he said, “Promise me it won’t break your heart when it’s over.”

“It won’t,” Dean reassured him maybe a bit too hastily. “Promise.”

As he hung up, a tiny bell in his head went on ringing, _It will, it will, it will._


	6. Friday

Friday came unexpectedly soon, breaking the silence with whispering leaves and birds chirping, tapping Dean on the cheek with morning sunlight. He stretched, rubbed his belly, and smiled. He felt ridiculously happy.

His eyes still closed, he listened out. The house made no sound, guarding the morning quietness, granting the sleeping ones a bit more time in oblivion. The pristine time of a new day, not spoiled by awkwardness, concerns, fears, and doubts.

He turned his head and for a couple minutes kept eyeing the opposite wall separating his room from his father’s. Back in John’s best days, his room was never silent, as neither was their whole house. Those days had been such a long while ago that Dean’s memory hardly kept any detail of them; now it was just one endless sunny morning scented with a smell of pancakes and coffee, echoes of childish laughter during a pillow fight, touches to a sun-heated wooden banister. It was the best he could remember and maybe the best of what should have been remembered about that room and that house.

He never questioned it staying like that forever — until a few days ago. Remarkably, the room’s current resident somehow made it feel more lively than it had ever been before. Even through the wall, Dean could sense that.

The thought made him smile again. It had been only a few days that someone other than Sam was around, but just like John’s abandoned room experienced its sudden revival, Dean’s own life unexpectedly gained the color and energy it had been lacking.

Castiel probably wasn’t even aware of the change. He’d just crawled in gently, with his stupid yellow suitcase and trench coat, with his weird British manners, his folded napkins and guidebooks, his deep mild voice and blue eyes. It seemed he just had been brought over with the western wind that had lost its way somewhere above Lawrence.

_You get sentimental._

And he didn’t even drink the day before. The hell with it, Dean thought, for once. Everyone can afford to be sentimental.

Last night, they had stayed up until after midnight, both reluctant to leave. They kept talking as they ate their steaks with garlic sauce that Dean had cooked, and as they shared the last bottle of beer, and even as they finished the remains of the iced tea ( with Castiel squinting explicitly at that). They just were unable to stop. There was no shortage of topics anymore, and before Dean realized, he was chatting about everything that came to his mind. Feeling like the best speaker in the world, he laughed, and gestured, and winked at Castiel’s confusion over Americanisms he’d put in deliberately. He was soaring in the clouds of nonchalance, and his listener seemed to be catching every word. Dean could probably even discuss turbochargers again (and for a moment, he’d considered that).

Needless to say, Castiel’s demure expression played an inspiring role. Strangely, the more solemn his face became, the better Dean felt about talking. It wasn’t that drunk talk that he’d made at the restaurant anymore. On the contrary, nothing he was saying felt forced or stupid; reclined on the couch next to Castiel, their knees almost touching, Dean was at ease and ready to move mountains.

Castiel himself wasn’t silent either. He answered Dean’s occasional questions with his usual vague honesty, his unblinking stare meeting Dean’s at all times, and yet, it appeared he shared more detail and emotion than before. The only moment that he stumbled speaking was when Dean asked something about his job — apparently that was a sore point that he’d regretted touching and clearly didn’t want to elaborate on. Dean didn’t insist.

Then, Dean didn’t really give any thought about what was going on. It took him six hours of sound sleep and a while of that lazy morning to realize the obvious: his irresistible, subconscious, intense longing for Castiel wasn’t a coincidence. It was something beyond his mind’s control, something visceral, rising from depths he never knew he had. And the weirdest part was that, at least then, it had nothing to do with sex.

Throughout his life, Dean wasn’t too demanding. With women, a pretty face and a short skirt over a taut butt were enough to make him interested for a night in a motel room, its dim light hiding all unnecessary detail. He barely remembered those girls’ names in the morning but he didn’t care. With men, it was a bit different — there had to be something special about one to make things happen. It could be some social prejudice behind that, but rather, it was the inevitable awkwardness that came along with each of those dates, the itching fear of being rejected.

_No preference._

He frowned, remembering. His past relationships had ended in different ways, sometimes because of him, sometimes because of the other party. The only unchanging aspect was the aftermath, balancing between sadness and relief, with more of the latter for the longer story. And whatever it was, Dean’s heart was always left intact. Even if the farewell night felt like the world was on the edge of collapsing, the next morning he magically survived it and went to work. His teeth clenched and eyes well-focused on the road, he didn’t look like a lost man. He wasn’t lost, and he couldn’t fool himself that he was. At times, he even wondered if something was wrong with him. Perhaps, he had not been designed to love at all.

Until he met Castiel. The only person that felt so right for him.

He couldn’t  help thinking that it had no future. The two of them, brought together by chance and Sam’s joke, had escaped from their own lives for one short week, and that week was coming to an end. A couple more days, and Castiel would leave for his glass skyscrapers and acting HR managers, back to his underground, rain, and hot tea. Dean would be back at Bobby’s, to his grease and screws. They never discussed it, but, Dean was sure, both of them felt the same wrenching regret at living so far away and being unable to change that. For giving up before the fight. They wouldn’t even know if it could work for them — just because there were no what-ifs and no would-haves over the ocean. Eternal damnation of the conjunctive mood.

He glanced up. A dusty angel figurine sitting on the mantelpiece caught his eye. Perpetually frozen with its head bent low in a rueful nod, mute and serene, the angel confirmed what Dean was scared to admit himself.

It was more serious than anything else ever had been.

#

They had their breakfast outside, on a sunny back terrace, in the half-shade of a striped umbrella attached to the porch stand since forever. They sat across from each other, Castiel in a light blue shirt with the sleeves rolled up at the elbow, showing his strong tanned arms. His face, freshly shaven, with glimpses of the sun playing on his high cheekbones, looked very young, as if those few days that he’d spent in another country had taken away the burden of recent years. At times, a wistful smile lurked over his lips, barely visible, almost unrecognizable. His eyes, wandering around the backyard, returned to Dean every few moments, as if making sure he was still there.

“You’re beaming like the top of a Christmas tree,” Dean told him, teasing.

Castiel raised his head.

“I’m enjoying this fabulous, delightful, captivating, glamorous, and tranquil morning that no Christmas tree ever had.”

“It’s a one-time offer,” Dean muttered. He hoped Castiel didn’t notice him blushing. “Next time, I’ll be charging visitors for idle mornings.”

Castiel cast him a curious look. “Will there be a next time?”

Dean shook his head. They both seemed to know that no random visitor would step over that doorstep.

“Do you think you’ll come over here again?”

“Sounds like a farewell,” Castiel noted, looking away.

“And?”

“That doesn’t depend on me, Dean.”

That wasn’t the answer Dean had been waiting for.

“And if it did?” he asked insistently.

There was a while before Castiel spoke. It appeared that he was too cautious or just reluctant to answer, as if it could somehow change the lazy mood of that morning, ruin its uncertainty.

“I would like to,” he said finally, each word made distinct, as if for the record. “I would really like to.”

“I can ask Bobby to hold that Lincoln for you,” Dean said, heaving a little sigh of relief. “I can repaint it.”

“But I like the color.”

“Really? Anyway, I want you to have something to drive if you’re gonna see the country again.”

Another long pause followed, quite different in nature this time. Castiel kept staring into his empty coffee mug, his eyebrows furrowed slightly, his stubborn chin nearly touching his blue shirt collar. Dean envied that stupid piece of fabric for being granted such a luxury.

“I think I’ve seen it,” Castiel said finally, his gaze was still fixed on the mug.

Dean pretended he’d missed the hint.

“Hey, but the Grand Canyon? Hollywood? Disneyland? None of that, right? So don’t you say you’ve seen it. You didn’t see a goddamn thing, Cas.”

Castiel snorted softly. “That list of yours gives me a strong reason to love Lawrence even more.”

“Okay, you skipped the Lied and a couple museums. Check your guidebook.”

They both grinned, almost simultaneously, for once sharing a joke.

“I think I need more coffee for that,” Castiel said.

Dean reached out for the coffee pot and refilled their mugs. Castiel watched him with his intense, almost hypnotic stare hardly fitting the moment. Under that stare, Dean had trouble keeping his hand and the pot steady. Castiel definitely had a gift for creeping other people out.

“What?”

Castiel flinched and glanced up. “You cannot imagine, Dean, what a difference such random acts of care can make to a person. Incredible.”

Dean froze still with the coffee pot in his hand.

_He can’t be serious about that._

“Refilling a coffee?”

“It's much more than that,” Castiel said strictly. “When was the last time someone did that for you? I mean, besides the waitresses?”

Dean gave it a thought.

“Last year maybe? I got flu, and for a couple days Sam was playing mother Theresa.”

“That’s another matter.”

“I don’t see how.”

Castiel gestured impatiently, his head bent down, “Taking care of the sick is merely a normal thing to do. It could be your brother or perhaps someone else being around, but it wouldn’t make a big difference. Getting a coffee as a simple unilateral courtesy is a completely different story.”

“Sometimes you sound like an old English textbook.”

Castiel scowled. “Don’t change the subject, Dean. Did anyone ever serve you coffee for no reason?”

Dean shrugged. Usually, it was always him who served others, occasionally or deliberately, but it never occurred to him to question why. It happened the same way with other things Dean had done as well. Caring instinctively, beyond all reason. Without Castiel’s question, he wouldn’t wonder whether it made a difference or not.

Castiel probably figured that out. He tilted his head sideways and looked at Dean.

“You don’t have to answer, Dean,” he said in a low voice, “but don’t you think that ultimately, it’s highly important to have someone who would make you coffee in the morning?”

Dean took a moment. “No,” he said, looking Castiel in the eye. “No, I don’t think so. It’s important to have someone worth making coffee for. That’s what’s important.”

All of a sudden, Castiel dropped his head and laughed.

“It appears to be a perfect match,” he noted. “You serving and me being served.” Then, without a slightest pause, he looked up and said, “I want to kiss you, Dean.”

It wasn’t a joke or a slip of the tongue. It wasn’t even a Britishism that Dean wouldn’t recognize, for there was none. And yet, it was definitely the last thing he’d expected to hear right then. Castiel was serious and his expecting gaze focused on Dean, straight and decisive, was quite sufficient proof of that.

Dean stared back at Castiel, blinking stupidly, a coffee mug frozen midway to his mouth as if in some kind of a chick-flick freeze-frame where the characters were too stunned to speak. He always used to laugh at such scenes before, certain that they were ridiculously unreal and only made up by movie writers to cover their unskilled asses. Now, he was having second thoughts about that.

He felt his lips moving silently, trying in vain to form an answer. He pursed his mouth, and with a sudden effort, swallowed. The aftermath of the coffee tasted bitter. Dean glanced into his mug and gave it a swirl like a wine glass. He knew his cheeks were burning hot, and the morning sun had nothing to do with that.

_I want to kiss you too, Cas._

_Yeah, let’s check how perfect that match really is._

_I'm totally up for the ride._

_That’s the hell of a twist, isn’t it?_

There was nothing on the tip of his tongue that wouldn’t feel awkward, or rude, or too familiar. Nothing fit, nothing seemed good enough to say out loud. Maybe, Dean thought, it was because no one had said those words to him before. Under normal circumstances, he was the one to hug and kiss first, and it never occurred to him to announce his intentions.

Playing for time, he wondered what that kiss would feel like. Probably, it would taste like an old wine Dean never drank, a cobblestone pavement he never walked on, a flower garden he never smelled. It might have the vague mixture of the Old World scents — of wisdom and memories, of temperance and suppressed lust, of endless, tangled, unknown back story. Or either, it might be none of those and instead be as chaste and pure as the kiss of an angel. A blue-eyed angel with graceful hands and rolled-up sleeves. It might be long and deep, their lips sealed together, their breath merged, their hearts missing the same beats. Or either, it might feel gentle and soft, with no obligation or promise behind it. Without a try, Dean would never know for sure. Without a try, he would never regret it.

He was still staring into his mug as Castiel said, “Your reflection looks excruciatingly appealing, Dean. Watching you consider your answer so hard, I want to kiss you even more.”

“Cas…”

“You don’t have to say anything, but anything that you do say could be taken as yes.”

Dean smiled lamely. “First they move into your house, then they eat all your bacon, and then they possess your soul,” he tried to joke. “I always suspected that the British invasion was a pretty dangerous thing.”

Castiel put on his serious face again. “I don’t encroach upon your soul, Dean. Unless you have an inclination to hand it in voluntarily.” He paused and reached out to touch Dean’s shoulder, forcing him to look up. “So… do you?”

Perhaps, it was that little touch, that innocent, barely feasible brushing of the tips of Castiel’s fingers against Dean’s skin that had made it. The levee broke — as so did Dean. His head spinning, his palms wet, he sat enraptured with happiness so overwhelming that he didn’t even notice how much of an oath by the altar Castiel’s last question sounded. It didn’t matter anymore, nothing else mattered except them two sitting on the sunny back terrace. The whole world was frozen in awe, silent, waiting for Dean’s answer like for the voice from Heaven.

And it followed.

“I do.”

#

Castiel insisted that they lowered the blinds. Sam would probably call it romantic — that cozy twilight around Dean’s bedroom with thin stripes of light entangling the room into a sunny cobweb — except for Dean spread-eagling naked on the bed, eyeing Castiel with a shameless, hungry gaze. That was something way beyond romantic.

“Hey, I figured why we’re in here, but why the blinds?” Dean said, genuinely curious.

“Most of the following might look embarrassing for the neighborhood.”

“Cas, you’re kidding, don’t you? The nearest house is about fifty yards away.”

“Which is a quite photographic distance, to say the least.”

“Who do you think we are? Goddamned celebrities?”

“Believe the resident of the most scandalous city of the world, Dean. Everyone becomes a celebrity once there is a good reason for it.”

“Have you?” Dean narrowed his eyes, admiring the most perfect shoulder line and chest he’d ever seen. “Have you ever got in the papers?”

“No.” Castiel unzipped his jeans, showing a no less perfect waistline, and approached the bed. “Actually I don’t care, but I doubt that an evening newspaper’s headline like _‘Dean Winchester enjoying his vacation’_ will make you very happy.”

“There’s no evening newspaper here, Cas.” Dean laughed. “Unless we fuck each other to death, no one cares.”

“I’ll bear that in mind.”

“Yeah, you’d better do.”

Castiel narrowed his eyes. “Dean, will you finally stop talking and let me do what I’ve been waiting _an hour_ for already?”

“Half hour.”

Castiel didn’t let Dean say anything else. In a moment, they were tangled together in the bed, embracing each other devotedly, avidly, fiercely. The split second after their skin touched, all Dean’s diffidence was gone. His hands caressed the curves of Castiel’s graceful body, his lips stealing kisses everywhere they could reach. Castiel tasted tender and warm, saturated with an unrecognizable scent that immediately made Dean’s own body thrillingly tense. He felt like he was sneaking into an unknown, forbidden territory, by chance left unguarded. As he squeezed his burning face into Castiel’s chest, he wished he could temporarily lose all his senses — to lengthen the moment, to stay undisturbed. Inadvertently, he locked his arms over Castiel’s shoulders and stopped motionless, his heart pounding madly.

“You're strangling me, Dean,” Castiel said, yet not even trying to get free.

“Just keepin’ you safe,” Dean muttered, slowly releasing his grip.

He rolled onto his back, now cuddling Castiel with both his arms and thighs, their damp chests stuck together. Their flesh was adjoined everywhere except their faces, and before Dean could realize it, Castiel leaned over him and kissed him on the lips, eliminating the flaw.

It felt like a burn, ice cold and scalding at the same time. It was nothing close to what Dean had imagined, and strangely all of it was there — that bitter sweetness of a long-awaited connection, a delightful taste of the dream coming true, a shameless physical comfort of their invisible bond.  

Dean’s fingers unlocked and slipped a short way to Castiel’s waist. There, they paused a moment, fingertips tracing the dimple his loin. At that, Castiel made a little movement, and their cocks rubbed slightly, sending a shiver along Dean’s whole body. They both were hard; bodies trembling with arousal.

All of a sudden, Dean’s skin became too sensitive, yet demanded more of Castiel’s touch, and as two strong palms slid down his sides, he arched towards them, smiling and squinting, giving no thought on what would happen next, not even trying to find it out. He only wished that moment would last forever. His head was swimming, his body continuing to tremble, and Dean inhaled, ready to beg for something — but it seemed he didn’t have to. A warm weight pressed him into the bed, and he reached for it — blindly hunting for Castiel with his lips — and almost screamed with unexpected, sweet, and stupid happiness.

“Look at me,” Castiel whispered, and Dean laughed. He opened his eyes — just to drown forever in the infinite blue. Dean swallowed his groans, a soft hand covered his lips, helping, soothing. He smiled again, knowing that his smile would touch that hand. The weight upon him eased, allowing Dean to roll onto his stomach. He hid his face in the pillow, feeling an escaped feather pricking his cheek, and the blue abyss that he could seen even with his eyes shut darkened, filled with heavy heat, embracing Dean’s body and soul. He was silent, as if by a mute order left by the palm on his lips, so he kept gritting his teeth and made no sound, only breathed hard and smiling. And even when it was impossible to be quiet anymore, he still managed to hold back his yell. The heat turned into a flame, and Dean felt himself burning to ashes, and rising up like a phoenix.

The body next to him slid down, leaving a wet trail on Dean’s back. He moved closer, brushing his chin against a smooth warm shoulder, and left another smile there. His mind still clouded, he attempted to open his mouth and say something, but didn’t get a chance to — Castiel kissed him again, stealing away all the useless words.  

#

A good while later, Dean didn’t have to think twice about where to go. As they crawled out of the bed (reluctantly) and dressed themselves (even more reluctantly), he had the destination already on the tip of his tongue.

“It’s no big deal,” he said, trying to keep his voice nonchalant, “just a funny little place nearby.”

Castiel’s expression became suspicious.

“What kind of place?”

“You’ll see.”

It took them half hour to drive to a somewhat unremarkable corner of 9th and Delaware. Dean pulled over to the curb and killed the engine, his eyes locked on the weird construction sitting in the middle of the roadside lawn. Looking like a covered swing that someone had forgotten to un-decorate after Easter, at a closer glance, it made an even stranger impression. The iron grid was curving upwards at twice the height of a human. The roof, tiled with light plastic, was laying on two metallic supports. Despite its unwelcoming look, the thing had a wooden handwritten sign that Dean didn’t have to get out to see. He knew the words by heart. The sign read,

_The Wishing Bench_

_Sit and make a wish_

_You will not be disappointed_

There was no other guidance or advice. No one was there to ask, either, so whoever came to use the bench had to rely on their own imagination.  

At times, it occurred to Dean that the more ridiculous the tool was, the more readily people trusted its magical power. Indeed, who would keep struggling to get something they desired if they could just sit on a bench and make a wish? Trust used to destroy whole cities and kill generations. No wonder it had credibility in other minor affairs. Was it love, or a new car?

He’d never taken anyone there before.

They came early enough to find it empty — unlike other points of interest in the city, this one wasn’t on the top of the visitors’ list — and Dean heaved a contented sigh. If other people would have been there, he’d probably just have driven by and made up another plan on the fly.

Without saying a word, Dean got out of the car. Castiel followed him. Luckily, the attraction didn’t require any explanation, so Dean simply crossed the street and stopped a few steps away from the bench.

Castiel observed the construction with a respectful gaze.

“Does it work?” he asked at last.

Dean shrugged, “No idea.”

“Why don’t we try it?”

With another shrug given in attempt to hide how stupid he felt, Dean took the lead and came up to the bench. As he sat down, old cross-bars made a quiet squeak as though warning him not to stay too long.

He had no idea if he was supposed to close his eyes or something like that. He even didn’t have a certain thing to wish for — except for someone standing in front of him to keep being close forever — but that was probably beyond all reason. No bench in the world, whatever wonders it worked, could make Castiel stay. Dean took a moment pretending to think, then stood up.

“Your turn.”

“That was amazingly fast,” Castiel noted. “Most people would take hours, maybe days, to frame their wish, no matter how simple it was. Perhaps that is our problem, after all… We don’t know what we actually want.” He approached the bench and looked at Dean, “Are we supposed to keep it secret?”

“It’s up to you, Cas,” Dean smiled, having suddenly realized that he was insanely curious to know what Castiel was about to wish. “I doubt it would change anything.”

Castiel pointed his finger at Dean’s chest, “You should have faith to make it happen. What did you wish for?”

Dean went stiff and licked his lower lip. “Do I have to say?”

“If it won’t change anything, why not?”

“So you want me to name it?”

Castiel tilted his head, his look unexpectedly severe. “I would appreciate it.”

“Okay, okay… Geez, you’re so serious, it feels like I’m taking an exam.”

“Don’t temporize, Dean.”

There was nowhere to go. Dean drew a sigh and said the first thing that had come to mind, “The Impala.”

“Oh.” Castiel rubbed his forehead. “That… that makes sense.”

He still looked a bit confused as Dean gestured towards the bench, urging Castiel to sit.

“Now that I shared with the class… How about you?”

“Of course.” Readily, he took his place on the bench, putting his hands by his thighs as if mistrusting the seat’s safety. As he was settling himself, his eyes never left Dean’s, and for a moment, the blue abyss peered through them again. He only shut them momentarily — blinked, and glanced right back. With a happy smile, he said, “I’m done.”

He looked so childishly innocent that Dean could not help grinning back.

“And what did you wish for?”

“My wish is still ongoing,” Castiel said evasively, but it was obvious that he was ready to share. “It’s a present perfect wish. It’s so perfect that I want it to be always present.”

“Now it’s you who’s stalling,” Dean complained. “Okay, what is your ongoing wish?”

Castiel gave him a strange look.

“I wish for this.”

“Meaning what?”

“Meaning exactly this,” Castiel waved around, pointing at everything at once and nothing in particular. “This place, this day, this mood, this company. The latter in particular. I wish for it staying like this for...” He stumbled on the word, then finished, “For as long as possible.”

For a moment, Dean was silent. He looked at Castiel. His full, slightly chapped lips were shut, making his smile a bit embarrassed, but overflowing with love and tenderness. He was entirely sincere.

“Then don’t leave,” Dean said, not caring how stupid it sounded.

Castiel’s eyes darkened, his whole expression so painful that Dean regretted his words.

“I can’t stay, Dean.” Suddenly, with a shy grin he added, “At least, not now. Perhaps, some day when I resign, I’ll move to the US. Do you think there might be vacancies at Kansas University?”

Dean’s heart jumped, flipped over and landed back into his chest, presumably intact. “You’re serious?”

“Does it sound too insane to be serious?”

“Uh… kind of.”

“You have no idea how stubborn I can be sometimes, Dean. Especially if it looks like my last chance to start teaching.”

Dean nearly choked. “But you’re a banker, aren’t you? What are you gonna teach?”

“Actually, with my Oxford diploma, there is a variety of subjects,” Castiel said gently, ignoring Dean’s obvious shock. “I can enlighten the minds on anything from world economics to ancient Greece, and I’d be delighted to fight the utter ignorance of your countrymen.” He made a pause, looking Dean in the eye. “Apparently, you disapprove of the idea.”

Dean shook his head. “It’s not that.”

“Then what?”

“We’re getting oldish, but freshmen girls don’t.”

Unexpectedly, Castiel burst out laughing — with an easy, whole-hearted laughter of someone genuinely enjoying his life.

“I believe we still have a couple of years before that becomes a problem, Dean.”

Dean laughed too, nodding. “Scoot over, Cas,” he said, sitting down next to Castiel. “Let’s make a double wish, and the damned thing’s gotta work.”

#

They spent the few next hours wandering around the city, talking and smiling like two lovebirds on the loose. An outside observer would probably say they looked stupid enough to be lovers. Dean didn’t mind. He felt surprisingly indifferent to whatever someone could have said.

It was already Friday evening, but Dean hadn’t asked when Castiel would leave. He’d said he had a week, and secretly, Dean hoped the week would end no earlier than Sunday night. Not that another day would change anything — and not that it wouldn’t.

However, time was running at some increased speed. When they got back into the car after a long walk (which Dean even _enjoyed_ ), it was almost dark. Feeling that such a special day needed a proper ending, Dean asked,

“How about a burger for tonight’s dinner?”

“You promised me pie.”

“Pie’s for dessert,” Dean said patiently. “Unless you’re up for overdosing on sugar.”

Castiel stared at him. “Is your pie sweet?”

“Isn’t yours?”

“In Britain,” Castiel said slowly, as though explaining the miracle of Creation to a three-year-old child, “pie is usually made of meat and gravy, cooked into pastry. The exact recipes may vary, it might be chicken or fish sometimes, but it’s normally everything but sweet.”

For a minute or two, Dean was just gazing at him, shocked to his very core.

“How do you guys even manage that?” he mumbled, his voice full of genuine compassion.

“With difficulty,” Castiel admitted. “By the way, Dean… I am sorry about that first restaurant. I know you didn’t like it.”

Dean was tempted to say that what he really didn’t like was himself, looking like a country boy taken to a high society reception and talking mechanical bullshit he could hardly remember.

“It was okay,” he said instead. “No need to apologize.”

“I didn’t mean to put you in an awkward situation. I am sorry.” Castiel rubbed the back of his neck. “When you come to London, I’ll find something more… traditional.”

Dean rounded his eyes at him. “To London? What for?”

“It’s a standard option for the users of the travel website. Hosts and visitors exchange roles when they want to, not necessarily to the exactly same location, but it’s presumed that every party benefits from the deal. Aren’t you going to pay me a return visit?”

Dean nearly choked.

“That,” he said, finally swallowing, “is about as likely as meeting a live dinosaur.” Castiel squinted at him, clearly not getting the point, and Dean added, “Unless they build a transatlantic highway. What’s the distance?”

“Something like six thousand miles.”

Dean narrowed his eyes, calculating. “About the same as New York to San Francisco and back. Awesome.”

Castiel gave him a long look. “You don’t like flying. Why?”

Dean never told anyone what the reason was. At times, it just felt stupid that a grown-up, independent person would stick obsessively to a childhood memory, but more often, he was merely embarrassed to admit his fear at all. Even Sam didn’t know, and Dean would rather die than tell him the truth.

Now, it wasn’t Sam who was waiting for the answer. It wasn’t even someone who’d stay around long enough to bleat Dean’s secret all over the city. It wasn’t someone who Dean had known well enough to mistrust.

“Once,” he started reluctantly, “many years ago, there was a storm. I was sleeping soundly, Sam too, his bed next to mine. That night, I was dreaming of myself on a plane. I was high in the sky, watching the clouds from above… I never flew before and the movie in my head was probably from some TV program or something. I really liked it in my dream, and the sky was so blue… And then, it thundered. It was so close that our whole house shuddered, and the window cracked… I mean, in my dream, I didn’t know that, my mom told me in the morning. And in my dream, the plane crashed. The thunder sounded like a breaking airframe, and the shaking felt like we were falling down… I was listening to all that noise and Sam’s screams, wondering how I was still alive. It lasted maybe a few minutes, but for me that was enough.”

“How old were you then?”

“About ten, maybe younger.”

Castiel looked down. “That’s why you don’t travel… I understand. I’m sorry, Dean.”

“No need to be,” Dean said. “That’s my contribution to controlling CO2 emissions.”

“That probably makes the world’s ecosystem happy. Unlike me.”

Dean pursed his lips. All of a sudden, he began to hate his fear of flying. If it wasn’t for that, he could have a chance to see Castiel again. Or at least see him sooner.

“Sorry, Cas… It’s just… I know what I’m talking about.”

“Have you tried?”

“Once. I made it to the security check.” Dean paused, recalling the shame and terror he had felt. “As they told me to go through the scanner, I freaked out.”

“And what happened?”

“I never approached an airport within gunshot again.”

Castiel reached out to touch Dean’s cheek, a soothing gesture of compassion and care.

“I won’t ever ask you to fly, Dean,” he said in a low voice. “But if someday, some _other_ day, for some reason or without any, you choose to try again, I can go with you.”

Dean forced a crooked grin. “Have patience. It’s not gonna be soon.”

“I can be very patient, if it’s worth it.”

They went silent.

Throughout that evening, they didn’t touch upon the topic of return visits and flights anymore.

#

They came home late, still tasting the nice dinner (with burgers and pies) and few beers they’d had. Without a word, they went upstairs to Dean’s room, which had a faint scent of their morning exercises.

Their second time felt different. With no hurry, they took a shower together and came to bed, naked, smelling of cheap soap, their skin pinkish and backs wet. They entered the familiar territory with the confidence of experience, their touches proprietary and clear, their movements mutely synced, their heartbeats in rhythm. For a long while, they lay with their limbs interlaced and their bodies fused together.

If felt so peaceful and comforting that neither of them talked. There and then, they were equal in their passion and desire, in their shameless lust and childish carelessness. No differences between them mattered anymore, they were simply two humans who got lucky to be together, to savor the moment of closeness and for a brief time, forget about the world around them.

Only much later, when they fell away from each other, puffing and panting, did Dean recover his breath and spoke.

“Sam’s gonna be thrilled when he gets back from Detroit,” he said.

Castiel grinned slightly.

“I think I should thank him.”

“Yeah, you kinda should…” Dean smiled as he tucked a curl of hair behind Castiel’s ear.

“And so should I.”

Castiel snorted softly, and Dean leaned back to look at him fully.

“What is it?”

“That woman we met… Pamela. And her forecast.”

“About rain?”

“About me being your boyfriend. It appears, she guessed right. Eventually.”

In the darkness of the room lit by a tiny reading lamp, his eyes seemed almost black and shiny like obsidian. Dean tried to catch his own reflexion in them but saw nothing. Maybe, he thought sleepily, those eyes could absorb light. Maybe he wouldn’t mind being absorbed too.

“It took a while to happen,” Dean said, moving up to kiss Castiel, “but damn right she did.”


	7. Saturday

The first thing Dean saw next morning as he woke up was an empty space beside him. The second thing — after he jumped out of the bed and rushed downstairs, pulling on his boxers and a t-shirt on his way — was the yellow suitcase by the doorstep of the house.

_Shit._

Castiel was in the kitchen, a steaming mug of coffee in his hand. His slightly tanned cheeks were shaven clean, and his hair looked like he had tried his best to tame it. He was wearing his formal suit and a twisted blue tie, his coat hanging on his arm.

“I didn’t want to wake you up,” he said, looking away.

The way he looked and the tone of his voice somehow made a few steps distance between them stretch out into miles in a single moment. It felt as if it wasn’t only a physical distance; it somehow revealed the other, much longer distance that Dean had pretended to ignore. Yet, it was there, it never disappeared completely, although after a few days and nights, its boundaries faded to a dotted line.

 _We’re like chalk and cheese,_ Dean thought, suddenly irritated. _Nothing in common._

“When were you going to wake me?” he asked. “After you’d gone?”

“Dean, please.” Castiel put his coffee aside, threw his coat onto the back of the chair and approached Dean. “Does it look like I was about to leave without saying goodbye?”

“Pretty much.”

“I wouldn’t.” He reached out to cup Dean’s cheek with his palm. “Don’t be angry with me.”

“I wish I could.”

Somewhat reluctantly, Dean broke away from Castiel’s touch and walked past him to the kitchen counter. Like on the first day, he needed to occupy himself with some household chores, to do whatever things that he could find, just to avoid looking into Castiel’s forgiving blue eyes. It was no one’s fault that he had to go. It was all planned and settled and booked. It was a mere life situation. Dean was adult enough to understand all that. Adult people come and leave, meet and part. That was normal. That shouldn’t make someone shocked or grieve, adults should be strong to take the blow. It was only the sense of pain that the yellow suitcase by the door had brought that was terrible. Nothing but that.

Still standing with his back to the kitchen, Dean filled a coffee mug for himself. As he lifted it, he sensed that his hand was shaking.

“So you’re off back to Chicago?” he asked, his head half turned to Castiel.

“I have to attend the meeting. In a fortnight, I’ll be back home.”

“Come again?”

“In two weeks,” Castiel translated. He paused, then went on, “This is ridiculous, Dean. We both know what to say, and neither of us has courage to do that.”

“Maybe we should flip a coin?”

“That won’t help.” He made a lame grin. “There’s a problem, Dean. I don’t know how to say goodbye. I never had a chance to learn. Can you teach me?”

Dean winced. That was the last thing he’d ever dreamed of giving a lesson on. “Like, you never left somewhere?”

“I never left someone. That’s an important difference.”

“Okay… Huh…” Dean scratched his nape. “You can say you’ll miss me.”

“I’ll miss you,” Castiel repeated obediently.

“And that it was the best week in your entire life.”

“It was the best week in my entire life.”

“And you’ll try your best to come again.”

“I’ll try my best to come again.”

“You’re doing good, Cas,” Dean smiled against his will. “See, it’s easy.”

Castiel nodded. “Indeed. I think I get the idea.” His expression severe, he came closer to Dean and put his arms on Dean’s shoulders. He looked like a soldier leaving for war. “If I remember right, on such occasions, it’s also customary to kiss.”

Dean swallowed the lump in his throat. “It is.”

The kiss had a taste of farewell. As their lips parted, Dean made an effort to look up.

“Do you really have to leave right now?” he said in a muffled voice.

“If I don’t leave now, I won’t have the heart to ever leave.”

Dean clenched his teeth. The way Castiel said those words, there was no way they could be lies. Overcoming the momentary feeling of half-elation and half-desperation inside himself, Dean took a moment to get his breath.

“Promise me you’ll come again or I’ll splinter that damned bench to bits.”

“For the sake of the bench,” Castiel said, his gaze unblinking and undeniably lingering, “I promise.”

#

Castiel tried to call for a cab but Dean cut him off by silently picking up his car keys. That little — and that much, for since the moment Dean had seen the yellow suitcase, time around him felt like it was running at a dramatically increased speed — was the least he could do.

There was already more than enough drama about their farewell, he realized as he caught himself watching Castiel putting on his coat, checking his pockets, attempting to adjust his twisted tie. Every movement he was making seemed the most significant in the world, every frown that touched his face appeared remarkable. In fact, Dean was vainly trying to remember every feature the best possible way, and at the same time, he felt clear that days, then weeks, then months and finally years would unavoidably brush away those details from his memory. It had happened before, and more than once. If for Dean’s heart it was the most special thing ever, for his memory it was just one in a number episodes of life. Memory was stupid.

He helped Castiel to load his suitcase into the trunk and opened the driver’s door.

“What time’s your train?”

“In an hour.”

In silence, they drove to the Amtrak station. Pulling over in the parking lot near the one-story building, Dean gripped the wheel so hard that his knuckles went white. He was eerily close to making a U-turn.

“Well… that’s about it.”

Castiel turned to him. “Thank you for your hospitality, Dean.” He reached out to put his hand upon Dean’s and added, “And for everything else.”

“My pleasure.”

“If you change your mind, the offer for a return visit still stands.”

Looking away, Dean nodded. He could not imagine himself changing his mind.

“Awesome.”

They hugged and kissed each other for the last time. Although no one was watching, they did it demurely, the way two friends would probably do — merely out of habit. If the whole city were crowding around Dean’s car, he wouldn’t care.

“Bye, Cas.”

“Goodbye, Dean.”

Castiel got out of the car and started walking to the station entrance. His back was rigid, his trench coat fluttering in the wind, his yellow suitcase wheeling after him with a bone-rattling sound. He didn’t look back.

Dean hit the gas and pulled out to the street. He didn’t want to watch Castiel go.


	8. A few days later

The days Dean didn’t count dragged on like an endless spate of routine events. Boring. Not sticking in his memory. Feeling like a rock in the river, he made no attempt at stopping its flow. He observed his life going by with the detached eye of a hundred-year-old sage, or rather, a mummy in a museum. At least, the amount of interest he was demonstrating was pretty similar.

Sam came back from his journey. Supposedly, it was fine. Supposedly, Jessica was fine too, for Sam kept disappearing from home on a quite regular basis. Supposedly, all that was going somewhere. Or maybe it wasn’t.

Dean went on working at the garage, catching up with the things he’d delayed due to his holiday. He finished changing the old leather upholstery in a ’72 Cadillac DeVille that had a client waiting to buy it. Bobby seemed happy with the job — and puzzled by his employee’s indifference. A bonus he suddenly offered didn’t change anything.

Dean finally fixed the cassette player in his Chevy. Lynyrd Skynyrd came out and went into the glove compartment for an indefinite amount of time.

Likewise, Clinton Lake and the Wishing Bench turned out to be off Dean’s routes wherever he was driving. He didn’t actually plan to avoid them; it just somehow happened that he turned on to other streets or took other directions. Ironically, the train station already popped up in Dean’s windshield a few times. He could have said that the car was making its own choice without human involvement. He probably could have fooled someone — someone other than himself.

That was a part of why Dean hid a bottle of Jack Daniels in his bedroom. It didn’t really help, it only made his nights shorter.

When Sam was at home — luckily, not too often — he gave Dean meaningful glances, but said nothing. More than Sam’s compassion, Dean hated his failed attempt at keeping the promise he’d made to himself: not to hope. To ignore the aching pain of inner emptiness. To keep on living the way he’d lived before. He’d screwed all that up the moment Castiel left for the train station.

It had lasted for days — till the morning when Dean found Bobby sitting in the garage office, staring down with a grim expression. Although normally he wasn’t the type that shines with joy, it looked a bit strange. He didn’t even raise his head at Dean’s usual greeting.

“Dean, your Baby’s been bought.”

Until that moment, Dean had thought that the worst thing had already happened to him. He was terribly wrong.

“What? When?”

“This morning. I just got the payment confirmation from the bank.” He scratched his cheek. “It was a good deal.”

“A good deal?” Dean barked. “My Baby’s gonna be taken away and you’re saying it was a good deal?”

“That’s what I’m telling you.” He got up and rounded the table, facing Dean. “Listen, boy, it’s better than you…”

But Dean didn’t listen anymore. There was a ringing in his head, louder and louder every second, almost unbearable. His eyes half-shut, and he struggled not to squeeze at his temples.

“How could you…” he mumbled hopelessly. “To let her go just like that… Smuggle her away… Without even giving me a chance! How the hell could you do that?!”

Bobby shrugged. “For your own good.”

“I’ve had enough.” Dean turned around to walk away. “I quit.”

“Don’t you even want to know who the new owner is?”

Dean gripped the doorknob. “I don’t care.”

He yanked the door open. There was a snort behind him, followed by Bobby’s voice.

“It’s you, Dean.”

Dean froze still. “What did you say?”

“It’s you,” Bobby repeated eagerly. “She’s yours. In law and in fact, like Sam would say. She’s been bought in your name.”

Turning back, Dean swayed slightly. His knees suddenly didn’t feel firm anymore.

“You mean someone’s paid for her? For me? Who?”

Bobby grinned. “You’re not quitting anymore?”

“Who?”

“Guess.”

Dean shook his head. The way that he did it meant that Bobby got the hint that it wasn’t the best time for guessing games, and took pity.

“Thank your Cas-from-London,” he said.

Dean’s heart missed a beat.

“C-Cas paid for Baby?” he stammered.

Bobby nodded. “In full. I wish I could make friends who are flush with money like that. My business would be thriving.”

Dean never cared less for Bobby’s business. He still could not believe what had happened.

“But how did he find you?”

“He said he’d Googled.”

Until that moment, Dean had no idea that Bobby’s garage was searchable.

_You just didn’t Google your home country._

“And what, he found you and paid right away? What did he say?”

“Nothing. He wrote me an email asking for my bank details. I sent them over and he said thanks.”

Dean stared at him wide-eyed. “You’re using email?”

“Sam taught me to.” Bobby tilted his baseball cap over his forehead, as he always did when he was feeling embarrassed. He came back to his table, opened one of the drawers and tossed Dean a bunch of keys. “Congratulations.”

Dean gazed stupidly at the familiar Chevy pendant.

“Bobby, I… I just don’t know what to say.”

“Give the guy a call, Dean. I’m sure you’ll find the words.”

And that was when Dean realized he didn’t know where to call.

#

In hindsight, he could see it had been the dumbest thing he’d ever done in his whole life. Throughout the week they spent together, Dean didn’t find a minute to get a damned phone number. At first, it didn’t feel appropriate. At the end, it felt like it wouldn’t help. As a result, now that he had good reason to contact Castiel, he could not, due to the most idiotic problem in the world.

It occurred to him that basically, he knew nothing. No full name, no address, no phone number. Not even the company name. He’d said he was working in finance, but from what Dean had heard, a half of London was working in finance. Even with Google, Castiel wasn’t easy to find.

By the time Dean got home, he was shaking all over like he had a fever. Sam glanced at him and silently brought two bottles of beer.

“I gotta find him,” Dean muttered after downing a gulp. “Whatever it takes, I gotta find him.”

He told Sam everything. He knew he wouldn’t manage his task alone, and so didn’t hesitate. When he came to the Impala, Sam took the news surprisingly easy.

“You didn’t tell me he was so rich,” he noted in a calm voice.

“I had no idea he was.”

Sam gave it a thought. “That’s a lot of money.”

“Damn right.”

Sam furrowed his eyebrows and stared into his bottle. “It doesn’t sound like a farewell gift.”

Dean said nothing. His experience with gifts was far more modest.

“I think you should call and thank him for the car,” Sam summarized. “Then you’ll see what happens.”

“There’s no then, Sam,” Dean said with a desperate sigh. “I don’t have his number.”

“You don’t but maybe the app does,” Sam smiled. He reached for his cell phone and tapped the screen, browsing through the applications. “Let me see… Oh, here’s the one. When I was registering, it asked for a phone number.”

Dean came closer and peered over Sam’s shoulder.

“So my number is there? Was there all the time?”

Sam shook his head. “Cybersecurity, Dean. You ever heard of it? Of course, I entered a dummy number for you. But,” he went on, “if Castiel wasn’t as cautious, we have a chance. I mean, there certainly is some phone number in his profile, we just don’t know if it’s real.”

A glint of hope flashed in Dean’s eyes.

“Can you look it up?”

Sam grinned and handed him his phone.

“You can.” He stood up and headed for the stairs. “Don’t forget to dial 011 and say hello for me.”

#

The number for Castiel’s profile turned out to be real. He picked up the phone at the second ring, and as Dean heard a familiar gentle voice saying _Hello, Dean_ , his heart nearly jumped out of his chest.  

By the time they had finished, it was the dead of night in Lawrence and and early morning in London. The words Dean had found were probably the right ones, although later he couldn’t recall any of them.

He was absolutely, idyllically happy.


	9. A few more days later

Sam’s duffel bag looked unusually bulky. Even its side pockets were filled tightly with stuff Dean had squeezed in there just in case. The only thing that appeared missing was the sleeping bag. He hoped it would be the last thing he’d need.

“I’ll drive you,” Sam said.

“Don’t bother.”

“I want to make sure you don’t chicken out at the last moment.”

They got into the car. Sam in the driver’s seat, Dean shotgun. It wasn’t a long drive, and in forty minutes of Dean being tormented with someone else at the wheel, the car pulled over in the short-term parking lot.

Sam got out first.

“I booked you a window seat. If you manage to fall asleep, you won’t even notice when you’re there.”

“Uh-huh.”

“They serve drinks,” Sam went on, “but try not to drink too much, okay?”

“Okay.”

They entered the sliding doors. Sam narrowed his eyes, then pointed out the direction and walked forward first, glancing at Dean over his shoulder every few seconds. He moved around with the confidence of an expert doing a task too primitive for him, and that alone was making Dean sick.

“We’re on time,” a girl at the registration desk said as she gave Dean a smile. “Your boarding time is six fifty-five, gate ten.”

Dean muttered thanks and lifted his bag from the floor.

“I’m gonna faint,” he said with effort, lips barely moving.

Sam tapped him on the shoulder. “You’ll be just fine.” Then he added, smiling, “Remember, I suggested to you about a cruise liner.”

“That’s too damn long.”

Sam laughed. “It’s only thirteen days, but patience never was your thing.”

“You said the same about solitude,” Dean grunted. “People can change, okay?”

“Maybe it's time you did.” Sam led them to the security checkpoint and stopped. “I can’t go with you any further.”

“Shit.”

“Think about the arrivals gate at Heathrow airport,” Sam grinned, quoting the movie that Dean allegedly never watched. “Come on, Dean. You can make it. I’ll be tracking you on the flight radar.”

Dean instantly imagined a phone screen and a moving spot having suddenly stopped. His stomach twisted and flipped upside down.

Sam looked at him with concern. “Do you need another pill?”

Dean closed his eyes for a moment and breathed out, “No.”

“That moment when you feel like an older brother,” Sam remarked. “Now I know what it was like for you when I panicked at exams.” He gently pushed Dean ahead. “Go for it, Dean.”

Dean suppressed a sigh and bent his head low like a bull preparing to attack.

“Remember me kindly, Sammy.”

“Call me when you’re there.”

Dean gave him a silent nod and walked on. He went through the first gates, then through the second, followed by the labyrinths and hallways of the Kansas City International airport, each step taking him closer to the final gate, number ten, where at six fifty-five p.m he would board flight 1933. He would land in Chicago O’Hara at ten past nine and board connecting flight 1601. If everything went well, at noon next day, he would land at Heathrow, London.

His panic finally left him, letting in peaceful and thoughtless calm. His breathing evened out, his step firm, and his eyes focused. He barely felt the weight of the duffel bag on his shoulder. The boarding pass in his breast pocket moved in rhythm with his pace.

He had an open ticket. He knew he would be back, but he wasn’t going to hurry.


End file.
